Sirens and Scales

by Kellie McAllen

  What the heck was he getting at? “At least they’re not all like you, bloody pains in the ass!”

  “You are so ladylike. True royal material.”

  She drew to her full height and crossed her arms across her chest. “Well, I suppose it’s true what they say that some people don’t deserve what they have. Class is earned, not a privilege.”

  “And I suppose you’ve earned it, and I haven’t?”

  “Why,” she said with a wave of a hand. “I was born with it. You, on the other hand …” There, a not-so-subtle dig at his so-called royal blood. Take that, asshole.

  “I guess I couldn’t possess such a thing, according to you. There’s your white privilege talking. Everyone here thinks we should go along with things by virtue of who they are,” he stated as he stared at her while crossing his bulging arms in front of his chest.

  “Wait. What?” She blinked, wondering what he was getting at.

  “What I meant is I’m supposed to help out a bunch of privileged white folks. That everything going on here is more important than whatever else is happening in the world. Figures.”

  It took her a minute to grasp his point. Then it dawned. Everyone they’d encountered so far had been white, or at least, fair-skinned. And all rich or definitely not struggling. Just like her. Well, like him, too. She gave an inner grimace.

  Did this man ever look at himself when he spoke? He was a prince with a fat bank account and international fame, yet he spoke of privilege.

  She couldn’t help it; she rolled her eyes at him. “You are really gonna bring up the racist card now.”

  “See, that is so white of you. Point out any discrepancy in color, and I’m being the racist.”

  “Last I checked, your father is white.”

  “My mother isn’t.”

  And neither am I, he didn’t say, but she heard the words anyway.

  He was really going there, wasn’t he? “How about helping your fellow man?”

  His jaw tightened, and his brows furrowed. “None of them is my fellow.”

  He looked like he wanted to say a lot more, but held himself.

  “Okay, so when you become king, you’re going to be the king of just the non-white subjects, right? Which makes it, what? Just you, your mother, and your sister?”

  “Watch what you say,” he bit out.

  She narrowed her eyes on him. Fine, she wouldn’t press. She’d been skirting that fine line, anyway. But she had a better way to shut him up.

  Storming off, she went to her trunk that had been delivered here already. How they’d done that, she had no idea, but it was said the Marekova could wield potent magic. She rummaged for a corset and a pair of skinny leather pants. A few quick pulls and twists of her hair had it secured in a messy knot on her crown, a few loose tendrils flowing down the sides of her head to grace the intricate onyx Gothic choker she glamored onto her neck.

  “We’re going out,” she told Djibril as she brushed past him to the door.

  He stopped her by wrapping a hand around her upper arm. Heavy heat seeped into her muscles where he touched her, and she stopped to peer into his eyes. With her stilettos on, she didn’t need to tilt her head back to stare into those emerald orbs. Once more, she thought she detected flames in their depths, but then the flames were actually on her body, in her skin where his palm lay wrapped around her arm.

  “This is not a game,” he growled.

  She licked her lips as she stared at him. When her tongue darted out, his gaze dropped to her mouth and followed that movement intently.

  “No, it’s not,” she said.

  “Then cut the party girl routine and make yourself useful.”

  Her turn to glare now. “Like you’ve been making yourself useful so far?”

  His nostrils flared, and he abruptly released her arm. She found herself reeling a little as he let her go.

  “You might not believe me, but everything I do has a purpose,” she told him, suddenly feeling awkward under the intent scrutiny.

  Why did it matter what he thought of her? Still, she needed his compliance. If he stayed here, the distance between them would render her entirely useless. As such, he had to tag along. And the best way to achieve that would be to goad him.

  “Want me to prove it?” she asked, throwing the dare out.

  He smiled, a cocky grin, his tongue poking out at a corner of his mouth. “I dare you to.”

  As she turned her back to him, she smiled. Oh, she’d worked him good there. Now to shut that big mouth.

  They set out toward the town. Night had fallen by then, and she had a particular destination in mind. It didn’t take them long to cross the town and get to the clubbing district. The air here was dense, full of oxygen, and this had been like a powerful stimulant to their dragon selves so used to the rarified air of Ognennyy Ostrov and its perpetual cold weather.

  At the entrance to Vibiza, the top club in the county, she bypassed the line and made it straight to the bouncer, who upon recognizing her—for who didn’t, in today’s world?—and then spotting her equally famous companion behind her, dropped the gold cord barring entrance and bade them in with a nod. They’d needed no glamor here. She bestowed him with a bright smile and sailed in with her head high, Djibril on her heels.

  Strobe lights pulsed in the dark, cavernous space that had its ceiling three floors above. White Zombie’s ‘More Human Than Human’ played, deafening the eardrums with its metallic riffs and the captivating, trance-inducing voice of its singer. How ironic, when everyone here was more sup than human. The contained energy in the room vibrated inside her and made her smile as she threaded a path to the bar. Along the way, she reached out and grabbed Djibril’s hand to pull him along, the crowd parting like the Red Sea when they recognized them both.

  A martini materialized in front of her even before she’d ordered—the world knew it was her drink of choice—and she pushed up on the counter to lean forward and speak in the bartender’s ear. “Tell your boss I need to see him.”

  She then straightened, took her drink, and turned around to nurse it as she gazed at the crowd. It amazed her that no cell phone had come out yet to snap her picture, or even Djibril’s, and share it on social media. Though she’d heard that Shadow Bridge looked out for its own, she hadn’t thought sups would actually respect that edict. Some of her stiff wariness slipped away from her as she allowed herself to relax a little and lean her elbows back onto the counter. Next to her, Djibril was asking for a glass of vintage Glen Fiddich. She quirked an eyebrow—he didn’t do things half-heartedly, since a bottle of that shit cost over a hundred thousand dollars.

  He downed the shot in one go. She tsk-ed. Did he not know how to appreciate the good things in life?

  As she glanced at the crowd, she bent and whispered in his ear.

  “Look around you.”

  The floor was a veritable crush of people of all sizes and more importantly, color and creed. A peek at his sour face made her reckon she had hit bull’s eye and he was having to swallow his overblown ego.

  “A melting pot,” she continued. “A good spot to be for all of us sups, if you ask me. I do understand what you meant, and I get it. Not gonna argue the human world is full of bullshit. But I just wanted you to see … of all places on Earth, this is not one with that sort of problem.”

  Why was she trying to pacify him, though? But as a king, he would need to acknowledge this, to know that harmony could exist and thus strive for it. Although he said nothing in response, she felt him relax. Maybe all of this was working. Maybe this minefield of a conversation wouldn’t explode in her face.

  A gentle caress on her arm made her turn back to the bartender, who leaned forward and told her the boss was ready for her, then pointed at a door on the side marked Employees Only.

  She gave a curt nod and peeled herself from the bar, grabbing Djibril’s hand again as she made her way to the door. Someone there pushed the handle down and waved them over the threshold.

  The
second the panel closed behind them, the staggering noise from the club cut itself out almost as if by magic. Even the setting took a second or two to get used to, with them now standing inside the plush corridor of an old antebellum Southern property.

  A door at the end opened, and the silhouette of a slender young man appeared. Straight, sandy brown hair brushed his forehead, the tips dancing over sparkling blue eyes set amid a clean-cut, handsome face that screamed ‘All-American boy next door.’

  She’d heard a lot about Sebastian Rampling, heir to an old Southern family of born vampyres who had however broken free from them to set up his own, non-affiliated nest here in Shadow Bridge with the blessing of Adrasteia Dionysios. First time she was meeting him, though.

  He smiled as they approached. “Kseniya Sokolova and Djibril Vasiliev. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  He shook hands with Djibril, gave her a gentle hug in welcome, then motioned toward his office. They all stepped in, and he closed the door and bade them to sit as he went to the executive chair behind the solid oak desk.

  “I’ll admit I’m not exactly sure why we’re here,” Djibril said.

  Oh, so he had really swallowed down his ego, to be showing such a lack of poise now. Guess he could surprise her, after all.

  She should cut him some slack. And they had a mission to undertake.

  “I’m afraid it’s not glad tidings,” she told Sebastian. “We’re here because of Séraphine.”

  Adri had told them Sebastian was in the know about the matter.

  His handsome face grew somber. “How can I help?”

  She etched a small smile. “Cedric Partridge had good things to say about you.”

  At the mention of the eccentric DJ known as StepC, he smiled. “Where did you meet him?”

  “Ministry of Sound, a few months ago in London. Said he started out here.”

  Sebastian nodded. “He did.”

  “I’d trust Cedric with my life, and he says you’re good as gold.”

  Sups always knew to gravitate toward one another in the outside world, and the vampyre and she had recognized themselves as kindred spirits back then.

  “Same for me, and you come with the highest recommendation from Miss Adri, so you have my complete trust and access to all my resources,” he stated.

  Kseniya paused. “Let me just say this. I have people who can help me out all over Europe, and especially in London. But they’re regular people. Humans. I might need more than what they can provide. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, but if it does … who can we trust there?”

  Sebastian remained silent for long seconds, seeming to ponder her question.

  “The vampyres there are all in the nest of Harry Collins. He’s not the easiest vampyre to deal with, though. I’m also not sure if he and his people are pledging to the new order. I might be able to ask the Supreme Leader …”

  “But he’s busy right now,” she concluded for him. She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Who else?”

  He sighed, then leaned over, resting his forearms on the desk. “Under usual circumstances, they wouldn’t get involved. But it’s another Great War we’re talking about here, and this will affect their kind.”

  She frowned. “Who are you talking about?”

  He clenched his jaw. “The Valthreans.”

  Next to her, Djibril stirred. “Wait, who?”

  This wasn’t good. She didn’t know them well, and their families had not crossed paths much in the past.

  “Someone in particular?” she asked, holding her breath.

  Sebastian nodded. “His name is Massimiliano Damiani. He answers to others, but that’s my contact.”

  Kseniya’s eyes popped wide open. “Max Damiani?”

  “The one and the same.”

  The tension left her then, and she sat back with a smile.

  Because that man, she knew very well, indeed.

  5

  “There’s a note from Sebastian. It’s addressed to both of us, with Adri’s blessing, he says.”

  Djibril discarded his brown suede jacket next to where he sat on the grey microfiber couch and contemplated the elegant calligraphy on the Post-it note stuck to the manila file on the coffee table in front of him. “Can’t say they waste time here. We were just at the club late last night.”

  And just before that, they’d crossed land and ocean together as dragons. Fire and ice—each could destroy the other, if they got too close. A chill ran up his spine, but she wasn’t looking at him now. Maybe just the memory of their trip to Shadow Bridge sparked that feeling. Would things be this way for as long as he’d be with her on this journey? Most of all, though, why wasn’t it bothering him as much as it should? He’d felt uncomfortable, as if thrust out of his element and forced into unfamiliar territory.

  He’d dare to think he almost … craved it.

  Kseniya pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator and walked with it to the dining table, where a text message had just beeped on her phone. Those sisters of hers never stopped sending shit.

  He eyed his phone, which he’d set on the coffee table. Zoe hadn’t sent him anything yet. Strange. Was that little sneak, Ivan, keeping her busy? Anger rose within him. He needed to see what that was all about, but first things first.

  He thought of the flight to get here again. Anger and irritation turned to something darker, akin to a sense of gloom. What had happened as he’d shifted into dragon form for the first time in front of Kseniya? Why had it been so difficult? Painful, even.

  Her energy had kept interfering with his. Tendrils of cold air had swirled around him, putting a giant wrench in his ability to concentrate, twisting it, reducing it to insignificance. He’d gone stiff, mired in sensations that had taken away his focus. The change had inevitably come, but not without a great deal of awkwardness and fighting—so much fighting, so much aching.

  The same had happened as he’d shifted back to human form in clumsy fashion, giving them an eyeful in the process. It was like he’d gone back to being a little boy, learning how to do this thing for the first time. Now, in his late twenties, the transition always proved seamless—until yesterday, with her.

  With this woman he should loathe yet was unwillingly connected to.

  Heat pricked his cheeks at the memory of her and Adri seeing all of him. Naked. Embarrassment crawled inside him, scratching at his bones.

  “Great. Let’s go over it,” she said, slithering coolly into his thoughts and crumbling them to dust.

  She set the phone down and hummed a tune, which, he realized with some horror, served to calm him down. As she looked pensively at the view outside, he took a quick moment to surreptitiously look at her. Really look at her. She’d tied her long, silky ebony hair into a pony tail, a style which made her look young and fresh, especially with her soap and water, no makeup look today. Her pale complexion presented such a striking contrast with her hair color, giving her an ethereal quality that suited her.

  They were now settled in the guest cottage Adri had placed them in. The place seemed smaller on the outside than it was on the inside. Two huge bedrooms, both with master baths, flanked a massive open area with kitchen, dining space, and lounge. A wall of glass at the back gave onto a large terrace, reachable through a side door from either bedroom, with a few of the castle’s extensive grounds and a forested area extending westward. The elegant façade of this home hid a warm and classic contemporary look in interior décor, guaranteed to please the most finicky guest.

  After a good night of rest, they’d had an ample breakfast of eggs, smoked salmon, and assorted pastries, delivered to them by castle staff. Djibril had taken some time that morning to chill on that terrace. He was pretty sure they’d both been doing their damnedest to avoid each other until their intel would land. Kseniya had remained in the living area, reading her magazines and chatting to her sisters on the phone, but every now and then, a shiver had raced up and down his back. A familiar chill.

  She’d been watc
hing him in those moments. Now, she didn’t have to even do that for him to feel her. Crazy shit.

  Here he was, though, and it was time for business. He couldn’t put this off any longer.

  He opened the folder to see a picture printed on the first page. “Max Damiani.”

  Pulled out of whatever thoughts she’d been harboring, Kseniya came over, set the water bottle on coaster on the coffee table, and sat herself next to him. Not touching him, but close enough for her presence to hit his system.

  She nodded, and he could smell her musk perfume. Could a scent be bold and delicate at the same time? Apparently, it could.

  “Yep. That’s him,” she said, almost breathlessly.

  His gaze never left the photo of the darkly handsome man. Almost too handsome—maybe cocky about it, too, judging by the faint turn of the lips and the knowing look in what women probably called ‘bedroom eyes.’

  What the fuck—he was actually sitting there analyzing a man’s features, as if weighing the competition? Keith would have a field day of crude jokes at his expense.

  And something else niggled at him. Competition? He didn’t feel that for Kseniya. Not at all.

  “You seem to know him well,” he asked in a bland tone.

  “I’d known him way before Piper came along. Great guy, and lots of fun, too.” She laughed, then shrugged.

  “Who’s Piper?” he asked, refraining from the urge to ask what kind of relationship Kseniya would have had with the man. There were so many other questions he could ask, but of course, he’d had to go there.

  “His wife. They’ve been married over a year now. When they broke the news, everyone’s eyebrows rose to their hairlines. I’m sure a few women grieved for months afterwards.” She laughed at that.

  He frowned. The guy was handsome, but not that much. “Why?”

  “The man has always been such a commitment-phobe. That’s been part of his allure, I guess. But he was always upfront about it and never led anyone on. He’d give you the shirt off his back if you asked. Just don’t expect him to stay the night. Until Piper, that is.”