by Amy Miles
The nibble at his ear lobe ignites his anger. Fane rises from the bed, tumbling the girl to the floor. He reaches for his shirt, which lies crumpled on the bed.
She splutters behind him, her ankles buckle as she fights to pull herself upright on her platform heels. Her fingers loop through her purse strap as she rises. “What’s your problem?”
Snatching a wad of cash from the drawer of his bedside table, Fane tosses it onto the bed. “Your services are no longer required.”
“Are you for real?” She snatches the cash and shoves it into the left cup of her lacy black bra.
Fane growls. “See. Yourself. Out.”
“Jerk.” She stomps across the room and slams the door behind her.
He sinks onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. What is he doing? Why did he come to London? To the one place most filled with memories of Roseline? Was it simply to torment himself further?
No. He knows he is here for another reason.
Fane gingerly slips his arms through the hole of his shirt, rumpled from the young girl’s haste to disrobe him. He winces as the material glides over his healing wound. Although much of the muscle in his side has knit back together, the skin around the closing wound is still raw to touch.
Slipping on his shoes, Fane snatches his room key off the bedside table and ducks out the door. The dingy hall, with its threadbare carpet runner and yellowed curtains on the bay window out front, is empty.
He glides down the stairs in one bound, landing lightly on his toes. The clerk glances up, surprised by his sudden arrival. He clasps his chest. “Blimey, you certainly gave an old chap a start.”
Fane tips his head in apology and enters the wintry street. High-pitched giggling reaches his ear. He turns, easily recognizing the girl he picked up not twenty minutes before. Her tattered dress is hiked high once more, open for business.
He hunches his shoulders and follows his feet in the opposite direction. Away from the girl. Away from her intoxicated friends.
It is not really the girl that he flees, but himself. Everywhere he looks, he is reminded of Roseline. The way her hair would tangle around her face in the gusting winds. How her eyes would light up when the snowflakes melted on her nose.
He can almost hear her laugh dancing down the street, making him weak in the knees. Now, her image just crumbles like bitter ash before his eyes. He is left alone, staring at a deserted street.
Fane groans, hugging himself. He misses Roseline so much it physically hurts, as if his heart has been torn from his chest and left to rot in the open wintry air.
His shoes punch through the thin layer of ice that has glazed over the murky snow. The uneven pavement offers a challenging obstacle for any who venture out. Fane trudges forward, untouched by the elements.
His stride slows as he reaches a corner, several blocks from his hotel. A glowing neon sign lights the path ahead. Fane sighs, knowing that it was inevitable that he would end up here, on the doorstep of Torrent. This is the last place in the world he should be. No doubt, he will later regret this decision to enter the immortal pub.
Three raps at the door. It swings open to reveal an enormous man, whose girth barely fits through the doorway. His face looks like a tattoo parlor threw up all over it. The little bit of skin that hasn’t been inked is pierced. This guy could set off a metal detector within a one-mile radius from any airport. “Yeah? Wadda you want?”
“I’m looking for someone.” Fane says. His eyes dart back over his shoulder. The shadows seem darker than normal right across the street. Maybe it is just his imagination.
The man clears his throat, pulling Fane’s attention back. His pierced eyebrow rises. “You looking for a Bird or a Bloke, mate?”
“That’s doesn’t concern you,” Fane responds, tossing a layer of malice into his voice.
The man squints at Fane, searching the contours of his face. Fane stares back, challenging the bouncer. He watches as the man’s brow unfolds, recognition pulling his lips into a smile. “Haven’t I seen you here before?”
“No,” Fane snaps, “I’m not from around here.”
The bouncer tugs at the metal gauge in his left ear. “Are you sure? I never forget a face.”
Fane grabs the bullring in the man’s nose and shoves him against the brick wall. “I said I’m not from around here.”
“Easy, mate,” the man grimaces, rising on his toes to relieve the pressure from his nose ring. “Just asking a question, is all.”
“Ask less next time.” Fane growls, shoving him against the wall. The man sinks back to his feet as Fane releases his grip.
The bouncer rubs his skull where the brick ground into his head. “Well?” he grunts, tossing his arm toward the door. “Wadda ya waiting for? Get on then.”
Straightening the collar on his shirt, Fane enters the darkness. Distant laughter pulls him forward. His nostrils flare as he searches for a single scent. Blood reaches him first- human, newly acquired. Obviously not a regular of the club.
He travels through a pungent cloud of cologne as he takes the entire set of stairs in one leap. Salty sweat mingles with the building’s age-old grime. Fane turns the corner and freezes.
Inhaling deep, Fane sucks the familiar scent into his lungs. A smile stretches along his face. “I knew you would be here.”
Chapter 11
Roseline’s hand strokes the crimson leather corset, her fingers trailing along the elaborate black scrollwork that spreads like angel’s wings along her abdomen. The boning along her sides is firm, molding her slender waist into perfection.
Twisting at her waist, the sweeping neckline accentuates her curves while still allowing ease of movement. Her bared chest, pale as a winter’s moon, and hair pinned up off her neck seems to elongate her graceful neck. The leather shoulder straps curl around the bodice, woven with intricate black ribbon. Lace edges the waistline, hovering just above her bellybutton, revealing chiseled abs.
Bronze curls, piled atop her head, coil around Roseline’s cheek. Dark eyeliner and metallic eye shadow makes her look alluring, fierce.
“Perfect,” she whispers, turning her attention lower in the mirror.
Skintight black leather pants hug her long legs, licking the curve of her hips. They plunge into knee-high boots.
She turns her back on the mirror, chewing on her nails as she urges the clock to wind faster. Perhaps she should have tried to sleep, but she knew it is hopeless. More than likely they will both be dead before the night is out. She cannot bring herself to waste one moment.
Guilt gnaws at Roseline’s stomach. She knows she should warn Nicolae of the danger they face or, better yet, refuse to let him come, but she will need him to retrieve Fane.
She shifts to peer through the blackout curtains. Moonlight filters through the gap, bathing the room in silvery light. It is time.
Her heels sink into the plush carpet as she crosses to the bedroom. She pushes open the door, rolling her eyes at the foghorn buried under a mountain of pillows. She kicks the bed. “Wake up.”
A groan emerges. The mound quakes as a landslide of cotton slides to the floor. “Go away.”
“We don’t have time for this, Nicolae. Get up.”
“Just five more minutes.” He turns over, burying his head under the blanket.
Exasperated, Roseline reaches the sitting area in two graceful leaps. She grabs a small circular bin, its contents barely shift as she returns to his side. “Last chance.”
“Whatever.”
With a smirk, Roseline upturns the canister. Nicolae roars, landing on the floor in a waterfall of partially melted ice. “What the heck?”
Roseline crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. “It’s midnight.”
Droplets of water patter onto the bridge of his nose from his disheveled hair. Nicolae yawns, sinking back to the floor.
“So? Can’t you give me a few more…” his mouth falls open as his eyes adjust to the moonlight. Heat floods his
cheeks as he spies her new outfit. “Again? Why can’t you warn me when you’re going to put on something like…like that,” he finishes lamely, flapping his hand at her outfit.
“You don’t warn me about your wardrobe choices,” she responds, tossing him a towel.
He hangs it over his neck, rubbing the excess water from his dark hair. “That’s different, and you know it.”
She ignores his comment and hooks her foot around a silver hard-shelled case hidden beneath the bed. Roseline tosses it onto the mattress. With two clicks, she opens the mystery case. Nicolae rises, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“Where did you get that?”
“A store,” she responds vaguely. There is no need for him to be aware of the intricate network of immortals residing in London’s underbelly.
It had been effortless to sneak out while his snores rattled the room. When she returned, less than an hour after sundown, he had barely shifted position.
Looking inside the case only piques his interest. The scent of leather hovers strongly over the small interior, but it barely masks the aroma leeching from Roseline’s ivory skin. Nicolae steps back, but the further he retreats, the better view he has of Roseline’s backside. “You have got to stop doing this.”
Roseline sighs heavily. “You act as if I’m doing this for your benefit. I told you I can’t help it.”
“Well,” he gulps, wafting fresh air from the heater into his face, “try.”
She smirks, admitting that she rather enjoys his discomfort. “I would think a trained hunter, such as yourself, would understand the need for certain…tactical advantages.”
Nicolae blinks, fighting to tear his eyes away from her shapely figure. Judging by his slack jaw, Roseline can only imagine that he is considering just what those advantages might entail.
Roseline naturally oozes sensuality. Each movement she makes is gracefully animalistic and executed with deadly poise. Her presence is bold and tantalizingly unforgettable. Her essence, since the day she was born into immortality, was created to attract humans. It is not something she can just switch off, although right now she wouldn’t mind finding a lower setting!
Nicolae runs his hands through his hair, blowing out a breath.
“Roll up that tongue, Big Boy. We have work to do.” Her arm blurs as a glint of metal slices through the air. Nicolae’s hand reacts instinctively, rising just in time to grasp the handle of a dagger before it buries into his cheek.
It’s curved blade and spiked cross-guard betray its maker - a Brules dagger. “Oh wow,” he whispers, turning the blade over in his hands, “where did you find one of these?”
His irritation appears to vanish as his fingers encircle the handle, testing its weight. It is a perfect fit for his calloused palm.
“It’s a gift.”
Nicolae’s hand stills the blade in a mid-air down cut. Roseline smirks. “You gave me something valuable. I am simply returning the favor.”
His eyes widen as he stares down at the priceless weapon in his hands. “No way! Do you have any idea how much this thing is worth?”
She rolls her eyes at his stupid remark. “Of course I do. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
Nicolae gapes at the brilliant piece of history resting in his hands. “I didn’t know any of these remained.”
Roseline shrugs and turns back to the case, sorting through its depths. “It was a gift from Vladimir on my hundredth birthday. I spent the next two hundred years training with it.” Her expression sours.
Twisting the blade against his finger, it slices easily through his skin. He winces, placing the knife back in its cover. “How did he come by it?”
Roseline’s eyebrows furrow as she watches Nicolae’s blood bead up on his fingertip. Her throat burns as she forces herself to look away, to force her mind back on the story. “Don’t you know?”
Nicolae stares down at the sheathed weapon. “Sorin used to speak reverently of the craftsmanship. Brules made the finest blades in all of Romania until his death.” He gasps, leaping to his feet. “Brules’ death wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“No.” Roseline draws up the memory, relaying it to Nicolae.
Henric Brules had been the best sword maker of his time. His forgery was a small, family owned business that produced exquisite weaponry. The nobles paid handsomely for his services. That is, until Vladimir threatened them.
Vladimir’s lust for power came at a steep price for Henric. His first refusal was met with the disembowelment of his entire family, save one. His eldest son, Davros, was Henric’s apprentice and successor.
Family blood stained the forgery floor, a gruesome reminder of Vladimir’s rage. Henric Brules lived nearly twenty years under Vladimir’s thumb before taking his own life. His son, Davros, had not been so fortunate.
“Vladimir took great pleasure in breaking Davros’ mind, turning him into one of the most sadistic killers know to the immortal world,” Roseline whispers through gritted teeth. “Now, Davros shows no remorse when skinning Vladimir’s victims alive.”
She pauses, clearing her throat. “The blade was purchased with human blood. It is only fitting to be given to one who will use it to repay that debt. It is yours now.” She turns, plunging her hands into the box. “I’m sure Vladimir will be furious when he learns that it is now in your possession.”
A joyful glint flashes in Nicolae eyes. “Then I think it’s only fitting that I extend my gratitude in person.”
“Indeed,” she smiles. Her hands emerge from the box, tossing a pile onto the bed beside Nicolae. “These will probably be a bit snug on you, but they should still work.”
The scent of leather invades his nose as he ruffles through the items. “You have got to be kidding me.” Nicolae drops the dagger onto the bed to lift a black leather vest with intricate scrollwork, which pairs with Roseline’s.
“What’s wrong?” she smirks, enjoying Nicolae’s boisterous swearing. “Not your style?”
“Of course not,” he spits, holding the vest with the tips of his fingers, as if it might spontaneously combust and burn him. “I’ll look like-” he lets his voice fade, averting his gaze.
“Like an immortal.” He nods. “That’s the point.”
By donning the warrior’s uniform, Nicolae is proclaiming his allegiance with immortals. As long as he keeps his mouth shut and his weapons hidden, he just might live through the night.
“I’ll look like a fool,” he complains.
Roseline rolls her eyes. “Your pride is not my concern, Nicolae. Where we are going, you need to look the part. I assume you prefer leather to death.”
She turns to face the wall, her eyes focusing on the golden fleur-de-lis patterned wallpaper. “I promise I won’t look.”
A near constant stream of abuse filters through his lips. The ripple of leather against bare skin announces his reluctant submission. Roseline waits, shaking her head at the length of time it takes him to dress.
Then a new sound tinkles in her ear: the tell-tale squeak of bedsprings. Roseline grins. “A bit tight?”
Another expletive. “I’ll manage,” he grunts, wriggling on the bed. He rises, the leather stretching as he dips to his knees and back up.
“May I look?”
“This is ridiculous,” he grumbles.
Roseline swivels to face him. His lean form reflects in the full-length mirror on the far wall, affording her a full view. Despite the scowl firmly stamped on his face, Roseline knows he will turn a few heads. Perhaps his physical attraction will help balance his blood attraction. She nods brusquely, smothering any hint of a smile. “That will do.”
“That’s it? That’s all I get for putting on this absurd outfit?”
“Yes.” Tossing him a pair of buckled biker boots, Roseline disappears into the outer room, leaving Nicolae to stew.
Chapter 12
Roseline can feel Nicolae’s intense gaze on her as she stoops beside the settee. He shifts to the edge of the couch to get a better view
of the long metal case she produces.
She runs her hands reverently over the dented metal. Roseline closes her eyes as the memories of years of training wash over her. She flips open the case and holds her breath.
“Wow,” Nicolae says over her shoulder, “I’ve never seen swords like these before.”
Roseline nods. “They were a wedding gift from Lucien. Vladimir was so touched by his brother’s generosity that he made me train with these swords every day. I grew to both love and detest them.”
Her fingers trail over the silver hilts, rippling down over the etched markings that run along the blades. Nicolae frowns and leans close to inspect the swords. His eyes widen as his head swivels to look up at her.
