I ended the call and slipped the phone back into the little purse. Worry nibbled at me like vicious hamsters. Surely Dove was fine . . . just being extra Dove-y, or something. And I really wanted her to see my dress. I suspected it might actually rate Dove approval.
I looked down at said dress and sighed. I’d unearthed the purple sheath and matching heels from the closet. With my hair pulled into a topknot, and the amethyst jewelry I wore, I looked good. And with all the lotion and powder and spritz I’d put on after my shower, I smelled good, too. Considering I spent a lot of time in the same clothes, sweating daily, showering . . . um, weekly, and ignoring stench and beauty in the name of archaeology, dressing up in this kind of finery was unusual. And uncomfortable. Why couldn’t some designer make T-shirts and khakis the next big trend?
I looked at my wristlet, debating whether to call Dove again. Maybe I should go to her apartment and make sure she hadn’t suffocated after putting on her corset.
Dove was an irreverent bitch, but she was responsible. And she didn’t lie. If she said she was going to do something, she did it. I was giving her fifteen minutes. If she didn’t show by then, I would track her down. And if she was alive . . . I would kill her.
I sipped my champagne. The college orchestra played lovely eighteenth-century music, and performers from our dance and theater programs were showcasing Baroque dances, such as the minuet and the gavotte.
Then the tempo changed to an upbeat tune, and the performers dispersed, grabbing partners from the watching crowd and dancing with sweet abandon.
“Good evening, Dr. Jameson.”
I turned my gaze to the gentleman who’d approached me. He was taller than I was by several inches, and I was six feet. He was also nicely filled out, muscled in a non-brutish way, with sandy brown hair and eyes so blue they looked gray . . . and cold. Like fog rolling over a fresh grave. I had no idea where that imagery was coming from, but that’s the feeling he gave me. He was handsomely dressed in an old-fashioned tailored tuxedo. I had pictures of my grandfather from his youth in the same style of formal wear.
“Good evening,” I said. I felt electrified in his presence, as though I were standing near a live wire and should tread very, very carefully. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“Ah, now there’s a question.” He studied me closely. “You don’t remember, do you?” He bent his arm under his waist and swept into a graceful half bow. “My name is Karn.”
His name was Karn? Last? First? Or was he more like Cher or Madonna? “I’m Dr. Moira Jameson,” I said, even though he apparently knew my name.
He extended his hand. “Dance with me.”
“It’s kind of you to ask, Mr. Karn,” I said, as though he had politely queried instead of quietly demanded. I resisted the urge to bat his hand away, “but I’m leaving.”
“Just Karn,” he said, in nearly the same severe way that Dove often introduced herself. He dropped his hand and offered a thin-edged smile. “A dance, Dr. Jameson.” He leaned close, the smile growing sharper still. “I’m afraid I must insist. Especially if you hope to see your darling little Dove again.”
“What?”
He kept a polite, distant expression while he took the champagne flute out of my hand and set it onto the tray of a passing waiter. “I’m quite sure you don’t have problems with your hearing, Dr. Jameson.” He once again extended his hand. “Shall we?”
This man had kidnapped Dove? Why would anyone take her? I gripped his hand, resisting the urge to twist his fingers enough to break them. For a moment his eyes gleamed with challenge, almost as though he’d guessed my thoughts and welcomed my defiance. I gritted my teeth, ignored my impulse to hurt him.
He led me to the dance floor.
He placed a hand at my waist and I reluctantly put my hand on his shoulder. Then he lifted my other hand in his and whirled me around.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“The world,” he said, flashing that awful sharp smile. “And everything in it.”
The world? Really? “Well, you can’t have Dove.” I felt chilled to my core. Was she okay? Had they hurt her? Why, why, why would someone take an orphaned, smart-mouthed college undergrad?
“I already have her.” He executed a turn. I twirled away, and then returned to the slimeball’s arms. “If you want her back, Dr. Jameson, then you’ll come with me and do what I ask.”
Oh, was that all? Grrr! I wanted to kick him in the shins. Hard. But terror, not retribution, crawled through me like a thousand marching spiders. I pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. If something happened to Dove . . . oh, God.
“If you hurt her,” I said, “and I mean, if she even stubs her little toe in your care, then I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He pushed his face close to mine, daring me to threaten him. Aggression rolled off him in waves. He wasn’t a gentleman at all. He was a beast hiding in a fancy suit. Fear slicked my spine, and I got the distinct impression he wanted to tear out my throat with those sharp white teeth of his.
“I will kill you,” I said.
He drew back, and sighed. “How clichéd. I was hoping for a far more clever response—especially from you, Dr. Jameson. You’re very much known around here for your . . . hmm . . . I suppose some might call it wit.”
“Occasionally it’s best to stick with the classics,” I said between clenched teeth. “Is it money, then? Ransom?”
“You really do like her, don’t you?” He looked at me blankly, as though he didn’t fathom the concept of friendship. “It’s useful—this connection you humans have to one another.”
“Us humans?” I asked, unable to keep the horror out of my tone. Great, Karn was crazy. I mean, I’d figured out he was ruthless, mean, and greedy . . . and those qualities, though heinous, did denote a villain who was at least purposeful in his nefariousness. But a man who was driven by the demons of insanity? And hel-lo, I understood emotional demons. And being mentally cracked. But not evil. Not like this man.
“You have so much to learn. And I promise that the world I will reveal to you is worth the price you must pay.” He twirled me again, and when I came back to the starting point, he whisked me off the dance floor.
He grasped my elbow and led me across the ballroom, past the food-laden tables, and toward the doors that led to the kitchens. My heart started to hammer in my chest. Where did he plan on taking me? What tasks did he want me to perform? And was Dove okay?
“Doctor Jameson.” Doriana Zimmerman stepped into our path, effectively blocking our exit. “I need to speak to you about the program funding for our sea urchin research.”
Doriana was the head of our marine biology department. She was 102 years old (okay, maybe just fifty or something) with wiry gray hair that always looked electrified. She had high cheekbones that she always rouged a terrible orange color, and she loved the color blue, which manifested in the glittery eyeshadow she wore—possibly to match the dress that hung loosely on her bony frame. Dove had nicknamed her Bride of Frankenstein, which was wrong, I know, but also a fair assessment of Doriana’s looks. Doriana was very good at her job, but absolutely manic about save-the-sea activities. I usually preferred entering a scorpion-infested pit over dealing with the woman’s barrage of funding requests, but today, oh, today, she was an angel from heaven.
“Sea urchins?” I inquired. My captor squeezed my arm in warning. He couldn’t yank me away without being obvious, and I knew he didn’t want to draw attention to us. It occurred to me, sadly, that I didn’t really have any allies here. I couldn’t think of a single person who would know me well enough to assess the situation and see that something was wrong.
No one could help me. And several people here probably wouldn’t help me even if given the opportunity.
“I sent a memo,” said Doriana, pursing her lips. She glanced at Karn. “Who are you?”
Oh, my God. I so loved Doriana right now. She had no patience for propriety, and tended to be blunt to the point of
rudeness. That was actually one of the few things I liked about her.
“I am Dr. Jameson’s escort this evening,” he said. He tugged me closer and kept a death grip on my elbow. “I hope you will excuse us.”
“No,” said Doriana. She turned her attention away from Karn, dismissing him as unimportant. Wow. I bet that pissed him off. World-dominating assholes liked to be taken seriously. At least, that’s what I’d gleaned from marathon sessions of the Harry Potter movies.
Karn squeezed my arm even harder, and I bit my lower lip to keep from yelping. I swallowed hard. “Perhaps we could discuss the sea urchin question later.” I tried to convey Help me with my gaze and the panicked edge of my smile, but she rolled her eyes.
“You don’t return phone calls or e-mails. I have to hunt you down like a . . . a seal hunter,” she said. Her expression grew sterner. “And that is another area of concern we need to discuss. Seals are—”
“Fascinating,” interrupted Karn. “Excuse us.”
He attempted to guide me around Doriana, but she stepped into his path. “Escort, my ass,” she said in a loud voice. “You’re a . . . a gigolo!” She pointed an accusing finger at me. “She doesn’t date. She doesn’t even know how to date. She bought you. And if she can buy man meat, she can fund sea urchin research!”
Doriana’s voice had risen several octaves by now, drawing the attention of the people around us. Karn was so stunned by her accusation that his mouth dropped open and his grip loosened. I had to resist the urge to dissolve into hysterical giggles.
And I am not a giggler.
People sidled closer, pretending to be interested in their champagne and canapés, but really they were waiting for the drama to unfold.
Doriana did not disappoint.
She slapped at Karn’s arm, the one that still held my elbow, and my arm popped free. “Man meat!” she cried. “That’s all you are!”
“Madam,” said Karn, “you are mistaken.”
In a quicksilver moment, I saw Doriana’s eyes go black . . . and I mean completely black . . . and she hissed in a low, snarly voice, “Vampire.”
Karn’s face twisted in hatred, and he hissed back, “Mermaid.”
What. The. Hell?
Doriana’s hand curled into a fist. Then she hauled back her arm and punched the man in the jaw. He sailed backward, into a knot of partygoers who fell down like a rack of bowling pins. Doriana looked at me and yelled, “Run, you idiot!”
I hitched up my dress, toed off the heels, and ran. I stopped at the door, my heart pounding, sweat beading my neck, and took a last look over my shoulder. Doriana marched forward, fists clenched, while my wannabe kidnapper extracted himself from the groaning group of people who’d broken his fall.
I didn’t wait to see what happened next.
When I got outside, I wasn’t sure what to do. I went down the steps, the feet of my hosiery snagging on the stone. The well-lit courtyard in front of the building was empty, which made me wary. I didn’t want to go past the circle of lights and into the evening darkness. It was just past nine p.m., hardly the witching hour, but everything seemed creepy to me now. I had the terrible feeling that Karn would burst through the doors any second to chase me. And he’d probably catch me.
I thought about earlier, about the strange feeling of being stalked in the parking lot . . . and wondered if that experience had occurred because Karn was waiting in the shadows for me. Why hadn’t he just taken me then? Why go through the trouble of kidnapping Dove if he wanted me for . . . well, whatever?
Ack! What to do? What to freaking do? Call the police? And tell them some stranger claimed to have one of my students, who was also my best friend—er, my only friend?
And what was the deal with Doriana calling Karn a vampire? And him calling her a mermaid? I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around it. Didn’t mermaids live in the sea and trap sailors and command Krakens? I had no idea. I really needed to brush up on my sea mythologies.
Being outside in the dark made me antsy, so I hurried toward the parking lot. Somehow, the Mercedes represented safety. I would get into my car, drive to Dove’s, and tell her about my evening. We would laugh, and then break out the vodka.
Lots and lots of vodka.
I ran down the sidewalk, grateful once again for having parking lot privileges. The Mercedes was within sight when a very large man stepped out of the shadows. He was well dressed, and for some reason, I noted the Italian leather loafers that he wore to complement what was obviously a tailored suit. The man flashed a not-so-nice smile.
I skidded, and whirled, only to find my path blocked by another large man. He also wore a very nice suit, a burnt orange that complemented his dark skin. His scalp was shaved, but he had a narrow goatee. He wore mirrored sunglasses, and the smile he offered was just as nasty as his friend’s.
I shot off to the side, and my feet had barely touched the grass when I felt myself yanked upward into a pair of steel-banded arms. I batted at him, but it was like smacking marble.
“Karn requests the pleasure of your company,” said the man in a pleasant English accent. My struggles didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.
“I should’ve known he had minions!” I cried. I continued to slap at the arms holding me.
“Not minions,” said the other man, who came closer. I noted the scar that bisected his left cheek, and the fact that he had one blue eye and one brown eye. His brunet hair was short and spiky, and he was clean-shaven. And very, very pale. “Partners.”
He was American, and if I wasn’t mistaken, had the light twang of the South in his voice. Partners? Hah! If these two thought Karn was the type of guy who had partners, they were morons.
“Let me go!” I yelled.
They both laughed, not in a diabolical, evil way, but in a way that suggested I’d just told a hilarious joke. And actually? That kind of laughter seemed a lot scarier in this situation. I continued to kick shins and punch arms, but really it was useless. He was a statue. He didn’t even have the courtesy to pretend I was doing any damage. And did I mention I wasn’t a delicate flower?
“I see you’ve detained our guest.” Karn walked out of the shadows, dabbing at his bloodied lip with a linen handkerchief. “Your friend is lucky, Dr. Jameson. I let her live . . . although she may be limping for a while.” He flashed a cold smile, and I noted that his split lip was healing even as I watched. I couldn’t help but think of Theodora Monroe’s book, and what Doriana had hissed at him.
Vampire.
Karn folded the cloth and slid it into his pants pocket. “Merfolk are notoriously vicious. It’s why I avoid the sea.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t begin to comment on his strange assertions. Besides, my captor was squeezing my middle, and it was difficult to draw enough breath to talk.
“Now. Where were we? Oh, yes.” Karn strode forward, eyed me with a relish that made my heart stutter. Then he raised his fist and hit me in the jaw.
My head snapped back, and pain exploded. I saw a burst of tiny white stars.
And I fell into the deep dark of nothingness.
Chapter 9
Dove
Sadly, it was not my first time to be locked in the trunk of a car.
It was my third.
The first time, I’d been a child exploring Aunt Peg’s 1967 Chevy Impala. She discovered me curled in the corner asleep about an hour after I shut the lid on myself. I was quite surprised that she remembered she had a six-year-old in her care, much less that she thought to look for me. She patted my head and gave me cake, and then we watched George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead until her Xanax kicked in.
The second time, I was fifteen. I ran away from my third foster home, determined to live on my own terms, even if that meant being homeless on the streets. My foster father—I believe his name was Milt—tracked me down right after the school called and said I wasn’t there. When I pitched the mother of all fits right there on the street corner, he tossed me into the trunk of his Ford and dro
ve me straight to my social worker’s office.
Now I was twenty-two and stuffed into yet another trunk. My jaw hurt where my kidnapper had hit me. I guess my screaming had irritated him. I’d blacked out long enough to be trussed up with duct tape and for whoever to shut the lid and start driving.
The car moved sedately, occasionally slowing down for speed bumps. I could only assume we were still on the college grounds, which made no sense. Neither did my kidnapping. I couldn’t begin to fathom why anyone would bother to kidnap me. I had no fortune. No fame.
But I did have a friend who had both of those. Moira.
The tape on my wrists was haphazard and my persistence and flexibility allowed me to get free. They hadn’t bothered to bind my feet because my shoes were trap enough.
The car was an older model, and had no seat or trunk pulls. I couldn’t get the taillights to wiggle even a little. After I’d exhausted all my efforts to get free of my wretched moving coffin, I stared up at the lid.
It was the damned shoes that literally tripped me up. I’d been running late to Moira’s shindig. Getting into a corset wasn’t easy, especially when I had to rely on Marvin, my pothead next-door neighbor, to tighten and tie the cords for me. Then I’d laced myself up into the red knee-high ballet boots and tottered out of my two-story apartment building to find Dumb and Dumber waiting for me.
Oh, and they were undead.
Which was slightly unnerving.
Trying to run resulted in my subsequent falling, wherein I was caught by Huge Dumb-Ass Number One and whisked away to the waiting car. I used my lungs to their full capacity as he threw me into the trunk.
He hit me.
My purse was lost, and so was my cell phone. I had no way to get hold of Moira or call for any sort of help.
What a crappy way to spend a Friday night.
Chapter 10
Drake
Leaving a werewolf for dead without checking to make sure you had killed him was a sign of arrogance—or stupidity. It didn’t hurt that my parents were immortals, which meant I was not just a werewolf. I was a demigod. It was nearly impossible to kill me. But most of parakind didn’t know the royal triplets had immortal blood.
Only Lycans Need Apply Page 7
