Knight of Wands (Knights of the Tarot Book 1)

by Mason, Nina

  He went on in a similar vein for another five minutes. When he’d finished, the crowd sprang in a burst of thunderous applause. Heartened by the response, he stepped off the podium, shook what seemed like hundreds of hands, and smiled until his face ached.

  Eventually, he broke free of the throng, pulled Duncan aside, and informed him of his plans. Though his friend didn’t like the idea of him leaving the country minutes after announcing his candidacy, he understood. Callum could never focus on campaigning when his butterfly was in trouble.

  “I’ll be back in a couple of days,” he assured Duncan, “and not alone, if all goes the way I hope it will.”

  On the way to the airport, Callum’s mobile buzzed. Assuming it was Vanessa responding to his text, he answered without checking the caller ID.

  “Lord Lyon?” a male voice asked, surprising him.

  “Aye. Who’s this?”

  “Alasdair Sinclair. Your opponent, it would seem.”

  Callum’s shields shot up at once. It seemed highly unlikely Sinclair would call to congratulate him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair. What can I do for you?”

  “For starters,” said Sinclair with an uneasy laugh, “you could drop out of the race.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “To save yourself from ruin, I should imagine.”

  Alarm chimed in Callum’s brain like a Sunday morning church bell. “Ruin? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “I have some photographic evidence, which very clearly shows two people engaged in public fornication, which, as you know is both immoral and illegal.”

  Callum swallowed to moisten his mouth, which was suddenly parched. By the might of Mars! How the devil had Sinclair gotten his hands on his daughter’s footage? Not that the means of acquisition was the issue. What mattered was blocking its distribution.

  “I knew you were a philanderer, Sinclair, but I didn’t think you’d stoop to blackmail.”

  “Didn’t you?” Sinclair cleared his throat. “In that case, I’d suggest you not underestimate your enemies in the future.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were enemies,” Callum lied, trying to be diplomatic.

  Sinclair laughed. “You really are a fool, aren’t you, Lyon?”

  “Maybe so, Sinclair, but I’d much rather be foolish than ruthless.” Callum scrubbed his face with his hand, trying to think what to do. “How did you happen to come by this alleged evidence?”

  “Does it matter? The fact is, I have the footage and you have my terms. So, what will it be, Lyon—pull out of the race and promise never to challenge me again…or have your good name dragged through the mud?”

  “And if I don’t withdraw?” Callum had a pretty good idea what Sinclair had in mind, but wanted to hear it just to be sure.

  “I’ll release the video, of course.” Sinclair laughed again, hurting Callum’s ears. “And take you down with me.”

  Bloody hell. What to do? What to say? Who to consult? Who to warn? “How much time do I have to consider your offer? And, if I should agree to your terms, what assurances will I have that the evidence has been destroyed?”

  “As to the former, one week,” Sinclair replied. “As to the latter, you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” There was a brief pause before he added, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Callum, mind still churning, put down the phone and raked his fingers through his haircut. What in the name of Jupiter was he going to do? If the press got its grubby fingers on those images, it wouldn’t just ruin his political career, it would also disgrace him and destroy his life—and he had no idea what to do about it. He did, however, know who might. Taking up his cell phone again, he placed the call. Duncan answered, thank the stars, on the second ring.

  “We’ve got a problem, mate,” Callum grimly announced. “A fairly major one.”

  “Do we? How major?”

  After Callum filled Duncan in on the particulars, his friend said, “Let me make some calls and see what I can do. In the meantime, it’s a good thing you’ll be out of the country for a few days—in case you need an alibi should things here go awry.”

  The suggestion raised Callum’s hackles. “An alibi? Jesus, Duncan, what are you planning to do?”

  “The less you know, the better, eh?”

  Chapter 17

  “I hope you’re hungry, sweetheart,” Beau blurted the instant Vanessa opened the front door, “because the burgers where we’re headed could feed a small army.”

  Forcing a smile, she held her tongue. She was hungry. Starved, in fact, but not for hamburgers. Despite having hunted earlier that evening, her simmering bloodlust was slowly building to a full, rolling boil.

  Callum had left her a message saying he was on his way, thank God, but would he get here in time? She’d tried ringing him back, but the call went straight to voicemail. She prayed his failure to answer owed to him being on the plane. Her self-control was starting to unravel. She felt shaky and sweaty, and her need to feed was so intense, she wasn’t sure it was safe to go out. She’d never felt like this before and wasn’t sure what to expect.

  She’d tried to make excuses, but Beau would not be put off any longer. He’d insisted on taking her to dinner and a club to warm her up, so to speak, before collecting his payout.

  Since they were going clubbing, she’d put on her “little black Maserati,” her seamed thigh-high stockings, and a pair of pumps with stiletto heels and dagger toes. She put on her regular knickers rather than the sexy ones Callum had bought her. Wearing them to go out with another man—especially one who was blackmailing her to sleep with him—just seemed wrong.

  Beau had showered and changed into fresh khakis and a button-down white shirt. Linen, judging by the limpness and creases. His hair, still a bit damp, gave off hints of shampoo.

  She licked her lips. “You look good.”

  His grin broadened. “Thanks, sweetheart. So do you.”

  She instinctively flared her nostrils to take in the tempting bouquet of soap, perspiration, manliness, and blood. Hunger growled somewhere deep inside, making her fangs yearn to partake. Fighting her preternatural urges, she followed him across the porch and down the driveway to where he’d parked his Volvo behind her Taurus. He had broad shoulders, a trim waist, and a very nice ass. Not as good as Callum’s, mind, but nothing to complain about.

  Until now, she’d compartmentalized Beau as employer, friend, and pseudo father figure, not a potential donor. Yes, he was nice and attractive, but he was also off-limits. While the human part of her still operated according to her moral code, the faery part was much less honorable.

  She struggled to stay in control as he drove to Fat Tuesday, a bar and grill in the French Quarter. The eatery wasn’t fancy. A wood-framed sign welcomed them to the small and smoky establishment. Wood paneling adorned the walls of the bar area, which was just wide enough for a single row of booths. All the seats the bar, stretching the length of the room, were occupied by customers drinking, eating, and smoking. The slate floor shone with a fine layer of grease and the air smelled of charred beef, deep-fat frying, tequila, and cigarettes.

  As they showed themselves to an empty booth, the bartender told them to see her when they were ready to order. There were laminated menus on the table, also covered in a fine layer of grease.

  “I recommend the Kiss of Death,” Beau said with a grin. “It’s their signature drink.”

  “What’s it in?” The irony of the drink’s name wasn’t lost on Vanessa, who now fought a smile as well as her percolating desire to have more than her employer’s lecherous company.

  “Enough booze to drop an elephant. You want one?”

  “Why not?” Even if the cocktail tasted terrible, the alcohol would take the edge off her cravings.

  “Hey, Mallory,” Beau called out to the bartender. “How about a couple of Kisses?”

  “Coming right up!”

  Beau turned back to Vanessa with a friendly grin that suggested he had no idea how much dange
r he was in. “It seems like every bar in Nawlins has a signature cocktail. Most of them are pretty dang potent.” With a chuckle, he added, “Which might explain why the French Quarter reeks of vomit.”

  Despite the poor sales job, Vanessa was game. Callum had told her alcohol helped take the edge off the cravings.

  “Sure, why not?”

  Beau went to the bar to get the drinks and, as Vanessa perused her menu, her thoughts remained on Callum. Would he get there in time to stop her from turning Beau…or worse?

  Returning to the table Beau set her cocktail in front of her. “Don’t drink too much, sweetheart. You’ll need to be conscious to uphold your end of our bargain.”

  Vanessa picked up the glass and took a sip. While tempted to down the whole damn thing in one gulp, the thought of passing out held no appeal. Something told her Beau would not be a gentleman if she ended up unconscious.

  “The name of this place is a reference to Mardi Gras,” he offered as they sipped their lethal cocktails. “Mardi Gras means Fat Tuesday in French. It has to do with Lent, which starts on Ash Wednesday. Once upon a time, Catholics used to slaughter a fatted calf the day before. Hence, Fat Tuesday.”

  She wasn’t listening. She was too busy worrying about Callum and fighting the urge to leap across the table and sink her incisors into Beau’s throat.

  A waitress came over and took their order—two hamburgers, one rare, one medium. She smelled good, too, in a carnivorous kind of way. After what seemed like a lifetime, she brought the food and another round of drinks. Vanessa nibbled some fries and picked at her burger, hoping the pink meat might mitigate her craving. It didn’t. Now, on top of everything else, she had a buzz and an upset stomach. She chewed her lower lip, anguishing.

  The dark hunger howled inside her like a rougarou. How was she going to get through the next few hours without killing somebody?

  For a moment, she considered telling Beau she didn’t feel well and wanted to go home, then decided against it for a couple of reasons. First, he’d only think she was making excuses to wriggle out of paying up. Second, she didn’t want to be alone with him. Not because she feared him, but because she feared herself.

  She was turning into someone or something else. Some sort of animal or monster. She felt different inside. More reckless, for one, to an alarming degree, and far more wicked. It was as if the natural wickedness she normally struggled against had magnified tenfold. Disturbing images flashed through her mind, pictures of her doing things to Beau—twisted things she found at once repulsive and arousing.

  The waitress cleared their plates, he paid the check, and they left Fat Tuesday. As they walked to the club, she could feel the bloodlust claiming her a little more with every step. Her joints pulled as if shifting into Nala. And yet, she was still her human self. Or was she? She held out her hands to make sure.

  Yes, they were still her hands, and yet, not. Just like she was still herself, and yet not. The debauched and reckless side of her nature had risen up and taken control. While she might look the same, she sure as hell didn’t feel the same. All fear, all inhibition, had fled.

  He stopped below a sign—a battle-ax inscribed with the name of the bar—outside a narrow passageway. The building looked dodgy to the point of dereliction. Her pulse quickened as he led her down the claustrophobic corridor. A strange thought flashed through her mind. He was leading her to the gallows, thinking the noose was for her when it was really for him.

  They crossed a footbridge and passed through some kind of strange torture chamber before entering an old New Orleans courtyard. It took every ounce of will she possessed not to attack him. Stopping to take a restorative breath, she looked up at the stars. Seeing the constellation Leo, she dimly remembered a golden-haired knight she’d read about once in a faery tale. His name meant bringer of peace, but she couldn’t seem to recall what it was.

  * * * *

  Callum, as restless as a caged lion, stared out the airplane window. Worry over what had befallen Vanessa tied his intestines in knots. He should have warned her about that prick Armstrong. Not doing so was selfish and cowardly. He’d persuaded himself she’d only resent his interference, but that was a load of self-delusional bollocks. At first, he didn’t tell her because he didn’t believe she’d really go back to the States. Later, when it became clear she was determined to stick to her guns, he’d hoped Armstrong’s bad behavior might send her running back to him. Now, it sickened him to think what evils his silence might have wrought.

  Outside the window, the lights of Atlanta were fading into the distance. At long bloody last, he’d reached the final leg of what had been a long and frustrating journey. In less than two hours, he’d be in the same city as his bonny butterfly once more…and would finally know what kind of trouble she’d gotten into.

  * * * *

  The Crypt lived up to its name in every way. Eerie dead things hung from the dungeon-like walls, heavy metal pounded from the jukebox like a sledgehammer on speed, and damp, mildew, sweat and blood, not all of it human, hung heavily in the air.

  Vanessa scanned the crowd—a mish-mash of Goths, punkers, bikers, and BDSMers—for other immortals, but saw none she could be sure of. Truthfully, any one of the black-clad anemics in this circus sideshow could be a blood-drinker.

  “When I was a kid,” Beau said as they queued up for the bar, “I imagined this place as some mysterious realm of evil where all kinds of dark and mystical things went down.”

  Vanessa glanced around at the skulls and other creepy decor. “And is it?”

  He shrugged. “There are some cages upstairs where dancers pretend to have sex, but it looks pretty forced.”

  The urge to comment on the irony of that statement burned on her tongue, but she bit it back as they stepped up to the bar. After procuring their drinks—two plastic cups filled with something called Midnight Potion—he carried them to an empty booth and slid in. As she took the seat across, he pushed hers in front of her. She picked it up and studied it with skepticism. It was purple and smelled alarmingly sweet and intoxicating. She took a sip and made a face. It tasted as dangerous as it smelled.

  Not caring, she took another drink. She was no more than a predator now. She had no conscience, no capacity for remorse, no sense of right and wrong. She needed prey to satisfy her intertwined needs for blood and sex. The ideal candidate sat across the table from her, ready and willing.

  As she nursed her cocktail, she shed her right shoe, extended her leg, and set her foot atop his knee. He looked up, blue eyes heating as approval bowed his lips.

  With tantalizing slowness, she inched her foot up his inner thigh. He cocked an eyebrow—a question or a challenge?—as her foot brushed across his crotch. She curled her toes against his bulge, delighting in her power as grew.

  “I take it you’re ready to leave?”

  Shaking her head, she smiled alluringly. “Not yet.”

  He grinned and opened his legs. “I like your style, sweetheart. Just don’t make me cream my jeans, okay?”

  With more room to maneuver, she slid her toes up and down, watching his every reaction. His eyes hooded and then closed. His mouth tensed and slackened. His fingers tightened and relaxed around his drink. Fastening her gaze on the pulse in his neck, she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, tasting artificial grape tainted with the medicinal bite of grain alcohol. Her fangs were out, her nipples were hard, and her pussy ached to be filled.

  “Knock, knock.” She tapped her big toe against his zipper.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Why don’t you open up and find out?”

  Eyes rolling, lashes fluttering, he peered around before lowering his fly. She resumed her ministrations, now flesh to flesh, noting every ridge, vein, and indentation. Under her toes, his dick felt like granite covered in putty.

  “God, I love the male anatomy.” Smile spreading, she pressed her big toe against the tip of his glans.

  “It’s not hard to see how you got inside B
arrogill.”

  The name triggered a pang of recognition, but she couldn’t for the life of her think why.

  “What’s Barrogill?”

  “Here, here.” He raised his beverage in a toast.

  Disappointment chomped down as he reached down and took hold of her foot. She frowned as he pushed it away. She’d been enjoying teasing him more than she realized. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, but if you keep going, I’m gonna shoot my wad. And as nice as that would be, I wouldn’t quite feel I got my money’s worth.” He zipped up, slid out of the booth, and offered her his hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Put your shoes on. It’s time to seal the deal.”

  * * * *

  Callum, pumped like a shotgun, sprang to his feet the moment the plane parked at the gate. Collecting his stuff, he hurried toward the forward hatch. The few minutes he waited for the stewardess to let him out felt like a century. He was suddenly grateful he’d flown first class.

  The minute he set foot in the accordion tunnel, he dug out his mobile and turned it on. There was a text from her. It was an unannotated response to his request for her address. There also was a new voicemail from Lord Snowden congratulating him on a job well done.

  He called Vanessa, got voicemail, and left a short message letting her know he’d landed and was on his way to her house. He then stuffed the phone back in his pocket and speed-walked the length of the terminal. After locating the cabstand out front, he jumped into the backseat of a waiting taxi and barked the address at the driver. When they started rolling, he sat back and closed his eyes. Holy Jupiter. The humidity was suffocating.