CheckMate

by Kallysten

  Still one handed, he continued adding ingredients to be ready to add the last one and pronounce the incantation as soon as he hung up the phone. But Jeanie startled him enough when she spoke next that he dropped the full bag of willow bark into the cauldron rather than the three pieces he ought to have used.

  "Marriage, Don. That's what I want to talk about."

  "Marriage?” he squeaked, and a flash of blinding light enveloped him.

  * * * *

  Lilia was still a hundred yards or so from her goal when she saw him and knew that things wouldn't go as planned. There was no mistaking that silhouette, a tall, lean man wearing a leather jacket even though the night wasn't particularly cold, one hand in the jacket's pocket, the other taking the red pinpoint of a cigarette to his lips and away in regular movements. No mistaking his scent either, when a light breeze carried it to Lilia. They had fought too often in the past for her not to recognize Vincent Jordan instantly. Too often, also, for her not to know that Nathanael would be pissed off. If Jordan was there, it undoubtedly meant that the clan's newest recruit was dust already. There went the power Nathanael had been counting on.

  Oh yes. Pissed off would not even begin to cover what Nath would be. If there was one thing Lilia had learned in the last seventeen decades from living with her Sire, it was that messengers usually deeply regretted bearing bad news. She had experienced it herself more than once already, her status as favorite Childe had never protected her from Nathanael's fits of blind rage, and she had no wish to repeat the experience.

  That was why she continued to advance rather than return to the catacombs and report on this unexpected development. If she brought Nathanael good news along with the bad, such as a promise that Jordan wouldn't be a problem ever again, she might be rewarded rather than punished. The so-called Special Enforcer had been after the clan for years, and he had killed a fair share of minions during that time, as well as Nathanael's second-oldest Childe. More than once, he had ruined Nathanael's plans to cement his hold over the town, although Lilia suspected that at least three instances had been coincidences and Jordan was unaware of the damage he had inflicted.

  She would definitely get a reward for this, she told herself as she approached. And she wouldn't mind either finally fulfilling the promise she had made the boy years earlier when they had first met.

  "You know these things will kill, don't you?” she commented, gesturing to the cigarette Jordan had just thrown to the ground, when only a few feet were left between them.

  His lips curled into a smile that seemed more feral than amused and he brought a hand to his heart in a dramatic gesture.

  "I'm touched, Lilia. I'd never have thought you cared about my health."

  She returned the smirk, as she started moving sideways, circling him.

  "Of course I care, Jordan. After all, you're mine to kill, remember?"

  He kept pace with her, so that he wouldn't present her his more vulnerable side or back, and that brought his face exactly at the right angle for the sliver of moon that hung low in the sky to reveal his features. From the corner of his left eye down to the middle of his cheek and then perpendicularly toward his jaw, a L-shaped silvery line ran over his skin. She had put it there herself, and the sight of it never failed to make her grin in self-satisfaction.

  "You were too pretty,” she mused aloud as she rolled her shoulders in preparation of the fight. “You looked like a boy with that angelic face of yours. Now you look like a man."

  On the last word, she attacked, leaping forward toward him. Her fist met only air; Jordan had, predictably, jumped back to his left. It was always his left. The habit would cost him dearly, some day. Maybe even tonight.

  "I am a man, Lilia,” he shot back, and she could hear the edge in his voice, could see the reawakening anger in his icy blue eyes. It was an old trick, one she had used many times before, but as always, she had touched a nerve. It was almost too easy.

  "You're still a child, Jordan,” she said indulgently, giving all appearances of being relaxed when in reality she was entirely focused on him. “You were a child when we first met, and you're still a child today."

  Her eyes followed his hand inside his jacket where he retrieved a stake. Her ears strained for his breathing and heartbeat, trying to detect the telltale variation that would predict he was about to move. As for his scent, it was a mix of controlled anger and strong determination, with that usual accent of lust that always came up when they fought.

  Ignoring her taunt, he brusquely ran toward her, stake raised and ready. They had fought so often that she knew all his moves, and she had guessed even before he had reached her which way he would attack. She parried the stake easily with a blow to his arm, and lashed out at his middle with her foot. Again, he escaped to the left, and she almost growled in frustration—not because she had missed, but rather because he wasn't playing at his best level. They had danced like this before, a dozen times or so, and this was the worst he had ever fought. It was almost as though he weren't really trying to kill her.

  "Still a little boy,” she continued, practically spitting the words as they both attacked at the same time. The exchange of blows that followed yielded little results on either side and they fell back again. “You think you're a warrior, a hunter, but—"

  For an instant so brief Lilia thought she had imagined it, the air seemed to ripple around them, almost shimmer. And suddenly everything became blindingly obvious.

  The many times they had fought without ever coming to a deathblow for either of them.

  The banter that always served as prelude to their fights.

  The lust that came off him when they started trading blows. Her own arousal, always more intense than during any other fight.

  Her irritation when he didn't fight well enough, to the risk of letting her kill him.

  Her pride at having marked him as hers with that scar.

  All of it made sense in that second of clarity, and she couldn't pretend anymore. Dropping her arms, she looked at him and, for the first time in ages, truly, sincerely hoped. She was used to taking what she wanted, but if he didn't want it too, there was no point.

  "You're so much more than a warrior,” she murmured.

  * * * *

  As he fought against Lilia, one thought kept running through Vincent's mind. What in hell was Don doing? He had given the signal a few minutes earlier, as soon as he had seen her approach, and still the spell hadn't taken effect; it was becoming difficult to remind himself he wasn't really trying to dust her yet. Difficult to hold back when she so clearly wasn't. He needed Don to do the spell, and he needed him to do it now!

  The one thing in his advantage was that he and Lilia weren't new to this; they had met and battled numerous times over the last seven years, and Vincent knew her fighting moves almost as well as he knew his own. They were too evenly matched, in a way. They knew each other too well, and that might have explained why neither of them had ever managed to completely get the upper hand and kill the other.

  But if he grudgingly admired her fighting skills, Vincent could have done without Lilia's running commentary. She always mocked his age, as she had done that first night when she hadn't killed him, as she was doing now, calling him a child, as though his twenty-seven years were nothing when compared to her own couple of hundred. He had done his research long before, and knew she had been turned at nineteen, a hundred and seventy-two years earlier. He knew all there was to know, he had never forgotten any of it, not even her real name even if he had never pronounced it out loud again since earning himself the scar she seemed so proud of.

  Suddenly, finally, the air wavered around them, Don's spell focusing on the crystal in his pocket. In just seconds, all desire to fight would leave Lilia, and it would be easy—easy to see, at last, how gorgeous she was. Vincent yearned to pull at the piece of leather that held her hair back in a short ponytail, let his fingers play in the dark auburn strands and find those threads of red that sometimes shone under the
moon. He wanted to get close enough to look deep into her eyes and finally decide whether they were green or gray. He wanted to touch those pink lips with a finger, or maybe his mouth, and discover whether they were as soft as they seemed to be. He wanted ... her. He wanted to finally see, finally touch the body she had only given him delectable glimpses of for so long.

  * * * *

  Standing to one side next to her seated mother, Hélène was the image of propriety as she observed the couples dancing in the middle of the room. She had always been too outspoken as a child, blurting out what was on her mind without thinking and earning herself reproachful glares in public and lengthy speeches in private about what was appropriate and what was not. She had learned her lessons, and now, at nineteen, she was the perfect image of what a lady ought to be.

  A lesser baron had invited her earlier, and she had given him a short waltz before begging off, making it clear without ever ceasing to be charming that she was granting him a favor and he ought to be grateful for the attention without trying to get more. That particular lesson, she had learned from her father. He wasn't here that night, but the memory of his words was, reminding her that even though she ought not to be too forward, her eyes had to look up, not down, to find a suitable match. She was the second child of a noble and very wealthy family, and her father had high hopes for her.

  When a gentleman approached and bowed first to her mother and her friends, then to her, Hélène felt something tighten in her chest. She had noticed the man several times during the evening, and each time his eyes had been on her she had looked away quickly. Tall and broad shouldered, he wore an impeccably tailored suit that spoke of money and class, but she didn't know his name or station.

  "Would you offer me the pleasure of a dance in your company, my lady?” he asked her, his smile so bright it lit up his whole face.

  Unsure, Hélène questioned her mother with a look, and after a second received a slight nod in reply. One hand dropping to the side of her skirts to hold them off the ground, she gave her free arm to the gentleman and allowed him to guide her to the dance floor. The orchestra was starting a new tune, a fast waltz, and they fell easily into the steps, turning so fast that Hélène felt she was flying. She rarely had the pleasure to dance with such a good partner.

  The dance seemed to be over in mere instants, but when they bowed to each other, he took her hand again and this time they danced to a slower music.

  "I apologize,” she said, her eyes meeting his shyly, “but I do not know your name."

  A small smile curved his lips. “You may call me Nathanael."

  She let out a quiet shocked laugh. “It would hardly be proper for a lady to call you so."

  "Ah, but something tells me you're more than a lady, Liliane."

  She missed a step in their dance but he adapted easily so that no one could have noticed.

  "I am afraid you are mistaken,” she said, the smile more difficult now. “My name is Hélène de Saint-Simon."

  "Hélène Liliane Alexandra de Saint-Simon,” he corrected her. “I know who you are. And I prefer Liliane. You don't mind if I call you Liliane, do you?"

  She wanted to stop dancing and step back to her mother; this definitely was not the kind of conversation she ought to have with a perfect stranger. But her feet kept moving, and her hand remained in his.

  "I don't ... I don't think it would be proper,” she protested.

  "Again, that word. Proper. Who decides what is proper, Liliane?"

  "It is not..."

  "Don't hide behind that word. I know you're a lady, anyone looking at you can tell as much. But you're much more than that."

  "More?” she repeated, unsure of what he meant, unsure she should be listening to him, yet captivated by the light in his eyes.

  "More than a lady, yes. More than anyone here but me can see. They stifle you, Liliane. They stifle the fire that burns in you when it should be raging, consuming everything. You could be so much more than what you show the world. You could make them all tremble in front of you, in fear and adoration both."

  The dance came to an end, and by pure habit, she bowed to him, still trying to understand his words, still shocked yet attracted by his discourse.

  "I will see you again soon, Liliane,” he murmured as he bent to kiss her hand. “And when I do, you'll become all you ought to be."

  When he straightened up, he flashed her another smile, and gave her a glimpse of his fangs. She gasped, bringing a hand to her heart, but he—it, the creature, the demon—was already striding away, already out of sight. She had heard of vampires, had been warned against their powers of seduction, but she had never truly understood until now.

  Just as she had never known what falling in love felt like until that instant.

  * * * *

  It hadn't been love, Lilia now realized. Because what she had started to feel for Nathanael, that night, the feelings that had developed when he had sired her were nothing at all in comparison to what she felt now for Vincent.

  A hundred and seventy odd years earlier, Lilia would never have even entertained the idea. It simply was not done. Women of her social status were to look pretty, have enough sense and education to be able to offer an opinion if asked for it and keep quiet and smile otherwise. They were not supposed to even hint at their feelings before a gentleman had made his intentions known to their family, and even then, it usually didn't matter much whether they enjoyed his company or couldn't stand him. They certainly weren't supposed to suggest what Lilia had in mind.

  She could almost hear her mother, admonishing her that by speaking out she would disgrace herself. But then, hadn't she lost all semblance of social grace the night when, newly risen, she had requested from her Sire that he take her to a party, and take her at the party, in full view of whatever guests were still alive and conscious enough to notice and be appalled?

  For that matter, she could hardly have disgraced her name any more than she had when becoming Nathanael's favorite Childe. She could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times she had heard him mention his human life, but despite the little information she had gathered she had managed to piece together that he hadn't been part of the higher spheres of society before his Sire, Antoine, had chosen him. Not that anyone could tell; by the time Antoine had been done with him, Nathanael could, at will, be the perfect gentleman or a ruthless monster, sometimes both at once.

  Now, Vincent Jordan couldn't exactly be considered to be on a level with her. He was human, for one thing; he made a living by tracking her kind, for the other. But she didn't care. Not anymore, not about any of it, not when she could almost feel her heart beat again in her chest simply by looking at him. And it was time to tell him. All of it. And ask him.

  "You're more than a warrior,” she repeated, and took one hesitant yet hopeful step toward him. “You are strong in your body, strong in your mind, strong in your heart."

  She had known all of this since her first fight against him, yet only a moment earlier had she realized what it meant to her, and her voice shook with the truth her words contained. He seemed to hear her emotion, because the hand that held his stake and had come down to his side a little while earlier now opened, allowing the piece of wood to slip free and fall to the ground. Encouraged, Lilia took another step.

  "I thought you would have appreciated a warrior,” he said quietly, so quietly that a human might not have understood.

  "But I do,” she assured him. “I see beyond that façade, to the core of you. And I like what is there."

  Another step; walking forward had never been so hard.

  "There's so much you offer to the world,” she continued. “Even things you probably don't know you have in you. Remember that time when you let me go because I had staked that vamp so it wouldn't get to your throat?"

  He smiled at the memory. “You wanted me for yourself, you said. But then you slipped and I could have staked you instead."

  "But you didn't. You never could. Just as I n
ever could kill you. And I don't think I would ever be able to."

  She was close enough to touch him, now, and she did just that, reaching out to trace the thin scar on his cheek with the tip of her finger. She had thought she only meant to hurt him at the time, but now it was clear that her subconscious had had other plans, marking him with her initial. He shuddered at the contact, and briefly closed his eyes. When they opened again, his pupils were so dilated that they almost completely obscured the blue of his eyes.

  She splayed her fingers to cup his cheek, and he leaned into her touch like a kitten begging to be petted.

  "A world without you in it would make me very sad, Vincent,” she murmured.

  "I can't even imagine you not being there,” he confessed in return.

  Close as she was, she was still too far, and took one more step in, her boots coming toe to toe with his. At this distance, she could feel the heat of his body reaching toward her, trying to envelop her, warm her; the scent of him was downright heady. “I don't want to fight you anymore,” she managed to utter. “I want to be with you. To love you."

  The last two words were but a whisper, but Vincent seemed to hear them clearly. A huge, delighted smile bloomed on his lips, and he promptly pressed them to hers. It was everything a first kiss ought to be. Shy at first, tentative and chaste, but soon too eager to control as everything disappeared in the heat of their embrace. Their tongues met and continued the dance that had been going on since their very first fight, entwining and separating only to find each other again. When he tentatively stroked the spots where her fangs hid, Lilia groaned and had to control her urge to let them extend. If she tasted him now, even only a drop of his blood, she wasn't sure she would be able to ever stop. He was the one to pull away first, breathing hard and his eyes shining. Lilia wanted nothing more than to take possession of his mouth again.

  She wanted nothing more, except to pose the most important question that had ever passed her lips. Leaning her forehead against his, she took hold of his hands and, after a brief prayer to deities she had long forsaken, she finally asked him.