by Tamara Hogan
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Tamara Hogan
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Dawn Pope/Sourcebooks
Cover illustration by Aleta Rafton
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Scarlett’s Set List
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For high school English teachers Sally Bronski and Jill Pollar, who fought like tigresses to bring the Poets in the Schools program to my tiny high school—and for the poet, Mary Logue, for being the first person to call me a writer.
And for Mom, who allowed me to check out any library book I wanted to.
Prologue
He was desperate for a hit. Junkyard dog desperate.
Stephen eyed the late night sky as he drew closer to the grimy club bordering Block E. Thunder rumbled like timpani, and the chains on his motorcycle boots rattled as he walked. Rubbing at the gnawing behind his breastbone, he unconsciously paced his movement to the beat thumping out of the club called Subterranean.
He stopped dead when he turned the corner. An overflow crowd seethed in the Indian summer heat, and two huge bouncers flanked the door like implacable marble columns. It had been a long time since he’d had to wait on the wrong side of the velvet rope, and he wasn’t about to start now. Christ, he needed something, anything. His skin felt ready to burst off his bones.
He took a shaky breath, knowing that he’d have to play the “do you know who I am?” card and hope for the best. How low could you go? But he had to get in. Now. Straightening his shoulders, he walked alongside the line, his eyes flitting over the people who waited. Where were the couples with their hands on each other’s asses? With their tongues down each other’s throats? Right now, even inhaling some secondhand lust might ease the clawing and scratching on the backside of his ribs.
“Stephen! Is that Stephen?” The woman’s high-pitched squeal floated into the humid night air, setting off a chain reaction that sounded like birds chirping in an aviary. Excitement pulsed. He huffed quickly, but it was there and gone. He turned on a carefully calibrated showman’s smile, dripping accessibility and “so pleased to meetcha!” to pull more of the crowd toward him.
It worked better than he’d hoped. He was quickly surrounded, then swamped. Energy swirled, momentarily soothing the infernal gnawing behind his sternum, but it didn’t last long. He desperately worked the crowd like the pro he’d become, shaking hands, accepting kisses, dodging a few wandering tongues, suckling on a few choice others. Energy surged, and he inhaled greedily. More, more. Men wearing baggy jeans and black T-shirts knocked knuckles with him and flashed devil horns while their friends’ camera phones clicked. Snippets of conversation eddied around him: “Steve, Stephen? Stefan? I don’t care what his name is, I just want to…” “Drummer for Scarlett’s Web, idiot.” “He’s a lot… smaller than he looks on stage.”
Two women bookended him and kissed his cheeks as their friend snapped pictures. He felt a hand creep along his hip, then cup his groin. “You’re going commando, aren’t you?” the chick on the right breathed into his ear.
He grinned but didn’t answer, setting off more squeals. No one noticed that the grin didn’t meet his eyes; they never did. Dread rose like water in a leaky boat. Her hand is right on my dick, and I don’t feel a thing.
The pulsing music beckoned, crooked its finger from the door. If touch alone wasn’t doing the job, maybe a music chaser would do the trick. He waded toward the door, pulling the crowd along in his wake. An elbow tagged his kidney, and he felt fingers yanking at his shirt. Someone grabbed a handful of his ass. “Leave me some skin, love,” he called back, a smile pasted on his face as he tugged his butt out of the man’s grasp. This could get ugly.
All momentum stopped when a glacial blonde stepped in, pushed a black Sharpie into his hand, and pulled up her halter top to expose her world-class Scandinavian rack. A small space cleared around them, and cell cameras clicked as he grinned, cupped her right breast in his trembling hand, and scrawled his autograph just above her stiff pink nipple. A punch of lust glittered in the air—hers, for him, and the crowd’s, for her—but once again, the energy dissipated too quickly. It was there, then gone. His frustration surged.
“Hey!” the blonde said, recoiling from the shock he’d delivered with his hand.
He kissed her cheek in apology, shoving down the panic. What the fuck was that? His body was acting like a blown transformer, sparking and crackling. Not normal, not good. “Sorry, love.” He had to get inside. Now. He raised his arm and caught the eye of one of the 300-pound badasses at the door. The bouncer dove into the melee and snagged him around the waist, half-carrying him out of the crowd to the door.
“Thanks, man,” Stephen said, tucking in his rumpled shirt. “That got a little more out of hand than I thought it would.”
The bouncer grinned and straightened his immaculate suit coat. “No problem. Everyone’s excited about tomorrow night’s show.”
“Well, thanks. You really saved my skin.” He tried to slip a folded bill into the man’s kielbasa-fingered hand.
The bouncer waved it off and unhooked the black velvet rope. “Glad I could help. You enjoy your evening now, sir.”
Curses, squeals, and offers of blow jobs rained over him as he shouldered his way into the club. The thing in his chest had nibbled on appetizers, but now it was simply ravenous. Standing in the cave-dark entryway, Stephen wiped at his clammy forehead with his T-shirt sleeve and let the tsunami of sound pound over him.
A small zing, then… nothing.
Sex, then. He’d have to hook up with someone.
Oooh, what a horrible problem to have. He almost laughed. He was living the life, nailing groupies left, right, upside down, and sideways, but the sad truth was he didn’t even enjoy it anymore. Nope, shuttling his dick in and out of a warm, willing body had become a means to an end: Just produce the orgasms that would feed the beast. And it had been fun at the beginning of the tour, grand fun. Men, women, anything in between—it didn’t matter. Two at a time, three at a time, groups—hell, whole parties. A week ago he’d been so desperate he’d had a three-w
ay in a fetid festival Porta Potty. Their road manager was still scrubbing the pictures off the Internet.
The thing was always hungry, never satisfied. But now that the band was back on home turf, he didn’t have to make do with weak humans anymore. He just had to find… some of them.
A cloud of the club’s energy—gutter-glam techno, grinding dancers, blinking lights, and the scents of spilled beer, stale cigarettes, and hot, clean sweat—drifted over him as he walked from the entryway into the club. Pheromones permeated the place like sweet chloroform, and he huffed greedily as he approached the dark wood bar. Yeah, this is more like it.
“Diet cola, no lime, please.” While the pierced and tattooed bartender poured his drink, he scoped the place out, mentally sorting energy into groups: light and shadow, sound and silence, smells, people touching each other. They all produced energy which he could use, but tonight he needed… Ahhh. Jackpot. A good dozen patrons who had that something extra blipped strongly on his internal radar.
The bartender—a vamp, he thought, but having escaped to the planet only a few years ago, he was still learning these nuances—placed his drink in front of him and waved off his money.
“On the house, man,” he said, acknowledging Stephen’s identity with a nod. He held out his black-nailed hand for Stephen to shake. Bracelets clanked. “Welcome home. When did you guys get back to town?”
“The tour bus just pulled in,” Stephen answered, taking a sip of his drink. Were their comings and goings really the source of so much interest? “I thought I’d reacquaint myself with the nightlife before Scarlett starts cracking the whip.”
The bartender moaned playfully. “Jesus, don’t torture me like that.” He acknowledged the approaching waitress’s hollered order with a nod and gestured back to Stephen’s drink. “Let me know when you’re ready for another.”
Stephen thanked him, dropped a ten-spot onto the bar, and turned toward the dance floor. Bodies blended and writhed to the bass-heavy beat, and his toe automatically tapped like he was behind his kick drum. Humid colognes drifted through the cramped space, and Stephen scanned the crowd. Who would it be tonight? The leather-clad, Cuervo-sipping redhead eyeballing him from the end of the bar? The Beckham-looking guy drinking beer who sat with his dark-haired friend at the table tucked into the corner? Both of them? All three?
A laugh drew his attention back to the dance floor, where a tall brunette danced with two friends. She was dressed like most of the other women in the club, in low-riding jeans and a knit halter top that clung to excellent breasts and exposed a taut stomach—but in his eyes, she lit up like she was radioactive. Her pleasure and happiness crackled through him like a Fourth of July sparkler. He watched her whirl and grind in time to the blinking lights for a good half hour, saw her cheerfully decline offers to dance from three men and one woman. She finally separated from her friends and peeled off to the restrooms.
She was the one. For tonight, anyway. He levered himself off the bar and followed.
Chapter 1
“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.” Lukas Sebastiani pounded down the narrow stairs separating his warehouse living space from the business floors of Sebastiani Security, tucking his black T-shirt into yesterday’s jeans on the run and trying not to trip on his boot laces.
He was late.
As he thundered down the hallway, several employees working the night shift craned their heads above cubicle walls then descended, like Whack-A-Mole gophers.
Lukas shouldered into his office, dropped into the battered leather chair, elbowed a pile of case files out of the way, and quickly fired up the secure computer and one of the oversized monitors on his desk. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered, his large hands twitching over the keyboard. The Council meeting had started over an hour ago—a 3:00 a.m. start time to accommodate the vamps—and Sebastiani Security’s proposal to allow their newest employee unlimited access to the archives was first up on the agenda. Lukas looked at his watch. “Damn.” Council meetings were run with unwavering efficiency. Thankfully Jack Kirkland, Sebastiani Security’s managing partner, had authorization to issue the Security and Technology seat’s vote.
He flexed his stiff shoulders, rolled his neck. What a shitty start to the night, and the long day to come. He’d been rocked from sleep by waves of lust, pain, and lightning-hot adrenaline that he’d been forced to gulp like he was being water boarded. The tastes and smells had twisted on his tongue, filled his nasal cavities—pinecones, ashes, ozone—and, just in case he hadn’t gotten the message the first time, he’d vomited it right back up.
Lukas closed his eyes and drew in a careful breath through his teeth. Someone had died. One more person he hadn’t been able to save.
The sour aftertaste still sat on the back of his tongue, rolled in his stomach like a greasy stew, and he couldn’t get the scent of ashes out of his nostrils. Reaching for the ever-present bottle of antacid on his desk, he cursed his hyperactive senses. Why couldn’t he be more like his father, his brother and sisters? All incubi absorbed emotional energy for sustenance, could sense and interpret the emotions as they were absorbed, and take vicarious pleasure in them. But through some quirk of genetics, Lukas’s interpretation abilities were snarled—he sometimes tasted emotions, sometimes smelled them—and however he experienced them, they were always heightened.
Some fucking gift. He pulled the wastebasket closer to his chair as his stomach lurched.
But his genetic quirk had a practical application. Because he could taste and smell emotions, he could sometimes match an emotional energy signature to the person who’d experienced the emotion—like a glorified police dog. He took calls from their police force at all times of the day or night, visited grisly crime scenes, to gather that one additional piece of the puzzle before the taste or smell dissipated. It was just one more piece of data, like DNA, nothing magical about it. And not admissible in court. It took strong detective work to connect that taste to a specific person.
Lukas sighed and keyed his obscenely long password. What had happened? To whom? He’d learned from experience that he’d just have to wait. But damn, it was frustrating. He wanted to do something physical, hit the street, make some calls. Anything but sit here and attend a fucking meeting.
Be careful what you wish for, you just might receive it. He’d asked for this. In the aftermath of the attacks of September 11, 2001, and the uptick in Homeland Security surveillance, he’d convinced the Council that a Security and Technology division with full voting rights was necessary to manage the risks to their people, to keep their species’ existence under humanity’s radar. And now attending meetings was part of his job, and took way too much time. What the hell had he been thinking?
He leaned in for the retina scan. His gritty eyes stung. The only reason he was awake now, sitting at his desk with shower-wet hair, burning eyes, and pillow creases on his face, was that Jack had sent a message to his mini-comp from the boardroom. Its vibrations against his bedside table had woken him up, annoying as a buzzing mosquito.
His eyes darted to another monitor, to where the Hot Sheet taunted him with its serene Code Green status indicator. There were a few yellow blips here and there, reflecting their police force responding to calls, but the overall status was green.
Bullshit. He did not have time for this PowerPoint rodeo. He needed to be out on the street, looking for… He dropped his head into his hands. He had no clue what to look for. But he’d be doing… something, instead of sitting in his office. If he looked long enough, he’d find someone doing something they shouldn’t be doing.
The conferencing software finally engaged. It was officially too late to go to the break room and snag some coffee.
His hair was soaked. He considered blocking outgoing video, but then decided not to. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d attended a Council meeting looking less-than-professional, but with a couple days’ worth of beard and dripping-wet hair, right now he probably looked like a wild man. His father was going to shit
an elegant brick, ask to meet with him afterward to discuss appropriate protocol now that Lukas held his own Council seat.
As water dripped down his neck and saturated the soft cotton of his T-shirt, the conferencing software worked its magic. On his monitor, he watched a holographic version of himself, dripping hair and all, shimmer into his chair next to a suited-up Jack. The boardroom chairs were too damn small for someone their size to sit in all day long, but somehow Jack managed to look like he was ready to walk a fashion runway—and kick a few asses along the way. But him? Even his holograph looked uncomfortable, spilling over the arms of the seat.
He took a minute to blink away the cognitive dissonance this technology produced in him. But it was worth it, because another benefit of attending the meeting holographically was that the distance buffered the buffet of tastes which inescapably leached from the group. While most of the women on the Council had fruity essences that combined very pleasantly, he didn’t think his stomach was up to Krispin Woolf’s mothballs tonight.
“Good morning, thank you for joining us, Mr. Sebastiani,” Willem Lund, the Chairman’s executive assistant, greeted him, his fingers tapping as he efficiently took notes at his keyboard.
“Sorry I’m late, Willem,” Lukas said, zooming his camera to the boardroom’s windows to ensure the security screens were engaged. Even though it was still dark, and the Sebastiani Labs corporate campus was located way out in the boonies southwest of the Minneapolis metro, you could never be too careful.
He then pulled back so he could see the whole room. The Sebastiani Labs boardroom looked like any large conference room found in corporate America—if that corporation had lifetimes of experience, proprietary technology, and obscene financial assets at its disposal. Against a side wall, a tableclothed credenza groaned with a selection of juices, water—fresh and saline—and synthetic blood. And coffee, damn it. A huge silver urn of coffee.
A pale maple table dominated the room, large enough to seat the Council members, their Seconds, and Willem. His father, Elliott Sebastiani, sat at the head of the table wearing an exquisitely tailored steel gray suit, his lighter gray hair brushing his shoulders. Willem Lund managed the meeting from his seat at the Chairman’s right. At his father’s left, chic and intelligent, was Claudette Fontaine, representing the sirens, and probably holding his father’s hand under the table. Next to her sat Valerian, the elderly vampire historian and sage, who was leaning across the table to gently scold the Valkyrie Second, Lorin Schlessinger, about her wardrobe. Lorin was an archeologist, and in her cargo pants and denim shirt, she looked like she’d just come from the field. Next to Valerian, his chosen successor, Wyland, silently watched. Facing off with his father from the other end of the table was Krispin Woolf, the WerePack Alpha. Jack sat jammed into the chair next to Lorin, but unlike Lukas, he was far too urbane to allow any discomfort to show. There were several empty chairs. Annika Fontaine, the Siren Second, was not present. Neither was Lorin’s mother Alka, the formidable Valkyrie Chair, nor was Krispin’s son Jacoby.
