Lance wrapped his fingers around the heavy green handle. When he rotated it in his hand, it transformed into a sword with a blade as black as Valerie’s aura. “What is this?” he asked.
“The obsidian sword will cut through illusion and false notions. The glass is for looking deeply into the heart. You need nothing else except your desire to reunite and your love of humanity. I send you to your first assignment, Angel of the Lost.”
Lance sheathed the sword. “What is it, then?”
“Prophecies tell of a time when Hell will open and the Fallen will walk the earth, tormenting and tempting. It has begun.”
What the fuck? Lance jerked his head back. “Why are we not forming our legions instead of playing”—he glanced around at the still-raucous party—“lawn darts?”
Death scratched its back with the handle of its scythe. “Oh, it’s happening. Just not how anyone expected.” It clasped Lance’s elbow and walked them toward a quieter corner. “The Fallen are on Earth, but they are tormenting in order to get killed. If you, Valerie, John, Glenath, and Anthony end them, then our former colleagues bypass the Wheel and ride an express train home.”
His loved ones were in danger while he had been drinking divine beer? Lance’s sword appeared in his hand. “Why?” he demanded.
“You are the Angel of the Lost. You are the one who can find them. The others?” Death sat on the floor of what was now a grand ballroom and laid its weapon across its lap. “Each has been in contact with a potent nascent Power. Valerie will fill you in on that.” With a languid wave of its bony hand, Death said, “Good luck.”
With that, Death, the Host, all of Heaven disappeared. Ripples of the cosmic laughter lifted Lance’s wings until he landed.
He was on Earth, in a gravel parking lot, standing next to a gleaming black Shelby Mustang with white Le Mans stripes.
CHAPTER 9
Anthony O’Neill, one of the four vampires left on Earth, hero of the French Resistance, recent instrument in the downfall of a presidential hopeful, and currently on his honeymoon, found his wife stoned out of her mind in an Amsterdam coffee shop.
The establishment was nice enough, at least, instead of one of those tiny ones that used cracked red plastic banquet chairs for seating. Glenath Tempesta, the love of his life, and her flowing skirts were draped over a worn velvet sofa. “Have some of the space cake. I haven’t had anything this good since the sixties,” she giggled.
Her long, wild gray hair framed her sensual face and heavy gray smoke framed her luscious reclined body. Young skinny males buzzed around her, each vying for his darling’s attention. Even in her sixties, Glenath turned men’s heads with her sensuality and earthy style.
“What am I going to do with you?” He couldn’t help the big grin crossing his face at the reminder of their radical pasts. They had met in the 1960s when she was a newly ordained minister and determined to end the discrimination between mortals and paranormal creatures. Crazy in love, crazy over the possibilities before Anthony’s maker forced them apart. It took forty years of struggle, but finally, he and his bride could celebrate their nuptials.
“Sit, smoke with me,” she cooed, patting the seat next to her. The young men glared at him resentfully. He grinned. Anthony knew damn well he was the luckiest man in the world. What would it cost to humor her?
He took an experimental breath in and gagged at the overwhelming skunklike odor. Yeah, no go on that plan. Human recreational drugs didn’t sit well with the undead.
“I’m taking you to the hotel,” he stated.
“You used to be fun,” she complained, her eyes rolling to the ceiling in stoned exaggeration.
A challenge, then. Without a change of expression, he bent down and picked her up. “I’ll show you fun.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him.
Glenath tasted like chocolate and the lingering residue of peyote. The chemicals swimming in her mouth made his tongue and lips tingle. He felt the hallucinogens race through his body, promising a dangerous ride.
Just like the woman in his arms. Glenath Tempesta was alive, vibrant, soft, and the wildest woman in the world. And she was all his.
“You want a trip? I’ll show you a trip.” He bit her lip, drawing tiny dots of blood. Anthony suckled the potent blood. Reeling from the contact buzz, he carried her downstairs and into the rain. Still kissing, he walked them to the nearest red-framed window. A young woman sat on a stool, checking her phone.
“I don’t do girls,” she warned as Anthony walked into her room.
He dug into his back pocket and threw a wad of cash at her. “Go get something to eat.”
There was more money in his roll than she’d make on this quiet weeknight. She flipped off her light, put on her coat, and waved good-bye. “Have fun.”
“Oh, we will,” Glenath mumbled around Anthony’s fangs, making his cock buzz even harder.
He shoved Glenath against the window, pinning her against the cold, condensation-laced glass. “A vampire on drugs going to fuck you against the wall of a brothel.” Arrogantly, he forced her legs wider to accommodate his thicker thighs. “Fun enough for you?”
“Groovy,” she moaned as he pulled her fuchsia peasant blouse down her torso.
The vampire kissed her nipples, sucking and tugging until she swore and forced his head deeper into her breasts. They loved until the moon hung low in the sky and the first yellow light of predawn shook the city awake.
Anthony’s face hurt from smiling. His balls hurt from coming. Boneless from delight, the two flopped on the small bed in the prostitute’s room.
“Damn.” Glenath moaned, holding a cold handkerchief against her pussy. “I really missed you.”
“If I could move, I’d have you again.” Anthony caressed her abdomen, tickling her navel.
Glenath snorted in laughter and futilely pushed at his hand. “If I could move, I’d have you again.”
Pleased with themselves, they exchanged goofy grins. A blast of sulfur permeated the room.
“Ugh,” Glenath said, fanning her hand in front of her nose. “I thought vampires couldn’t do that.”
“It’s not me,” Anthony retorted. He knew Glenath hadn’t dealt it; he would have felt her stomach move.
“Ha!” An eight-foot-tall, bright green woman with four arms blasted through the doorway. Her blue teeth curled like tusks under her chin and all of her arms flailed in random patterns. “I did it. Prepare to die!”
With a slow, shuffling step, the Fallen Angel squished herself into the room. “Ow,” she muttered when her head slammed against the less-than-six-foot-tall ceiling.
“This is the weirdest assassination attempt I’ve ever experienced,” Glenath whispered.
“Yeah.” Anthony stared as the green woman crouched against the corner.
“I will kill you,” the demon mumbled around her tusks. “I threaten you with the unending torment of Hell. Prepare to defend yourselves.” The Fallen waved one of her hands in a “get on with it, dummy” gesture.
Anthony grabbed the first thing at hand and waved it overhead as threateningly as he could. “You haven’t a chance against a vampire and the Bishop Tempesta, evil one,” he retorted, glancing at his chosen weapon. Nothing like an extra-large bottle of lubricant to send chills of fear through the apparently suicidal ancient enemy of mortals.
“I will fight by your side, my darling,” Glenath pronounced, keeping her face as straight as if she held the Host before a congregation. She whispered a few words toward the bottle. “You have no defense against our holy, um, water, you fiend!”
With a mighty squeeze, Anthony squeezed the blessed lubricant all over the Fallen’s conveniently outthrust chest.
“Argh! I am slain!” The four-armed monster waved four thumbs-up at them as she crumbled into a mass of lube and ash.
The two lovers stared at the slick, disgusting mess on the floor. “That was weird,” Glenath announced.
Anthony moved the wreckage of
the door. The early sun pinched his eyes, but he could still see the stone-walled canals and the bright green of the overhanging trees. “Huh. That’s not the weirdest thing.”
His wife wrapped a sheet around her and peered out the door. A line of Fallen Angels wrapped around the block. When they saw the two honeymooners, they cheered and screamed as though they were teenaged girls who had just seen the Beatles.
“We’re going to need more lube,” Anthony muttered.
“Hell.” Glenath placed her hands on her hips, her wrists facing forward. “I’m going to need more drugs.”
CHAPTER 10
Despite her newfound love of the sun, Valerie remained a night creature. Wide-awake after her nap, she had left their bed hours ago. Yet John didn’t sleep. Valerie stopped her midnight weapon cleaning at the sounds of his thrashing.
The tiny apartment boasted a separate kitchen and bath, but the white walls were old-fashioned lathe and plaster. Soundproof, they weren’t.
Her first instinct was to ignore him. He was an adult. He could get himself a sleeping pill or a glass of warm milk or whatever it was mortals used. The baby dug its toes into Valerie’s ribs, a reminder of the reality of love.
Her eyes lit on the remains of the pastries he’d brought home earlier today. She was sitting in a rocker he had bought specifically for her and “their” baby. The warm pleasure between her legs suggested that she treat him as gently as he had treated her.
A fluff of John’s pillows decided her. She picked up her viola case.
John’s bedroom faced away from the street, but some traffic sounds still made it through the open window. In her bare feet, she crossed the floor, automatically avoiding all the creaky floorboards. Their gazes held until she sat on the foot of the bed.
John’s bedroom was small by American standards, but roomy by European thought. It was small, spare, and spotless. Instead of a double bed for them to share, they had two single beds pushed next to each other, each with its own linens. The blond hardwood floor warmed up the drifting curtains and white linens. Valerie smiled at her thick rugs pooled by the foot of John’s bed. They’d had sex on them this afternoon.
Despite the color of her furs, John’s bedroom reminded her of Lance’s monklike cell.
“Did I disturb you?” John’s normally mellow voice held the scratch of hard contemplation.
“No,” she lied. Valerie unlatched her viola case. “This used to help my wife sleep.”
“Your wife.” John lay on his back and tucked his hands behind his head. “You were married.” He sounded irritable, as though she had deliberately kept secrets from him.
“Ilona never knew, John.” Valerie answered the question he didn’t ask. “My brother stole her from me, dug his teeth into her fair neck.”
“Is she still alive?”
Valerie plucked the E string. “I killed her.”
The evening froze around them. She felt John’s gaze on her downturned face.
She picked up her bow and ran a quick scale on the instrument. “I’ve not played for another living being since she was turned.” Valerie settled the familiar wood under her chin and adjusted her strings.
John rolled over to lean against the wall behind his bed. His nipples peaked and the hair on his chest ruffled in response to the chilly night. She breathed his mouthwatering apple aroma released by the disarrayed blankets.
“Who is your favorite?” he asked.
“Tonight, it is Berlioz.” With that, she played for him.
Passion dripped from Valerie’s fingers. The complicated notes blended to reveal things she couldn’t say out loud: her loneliness, her heartbreak at the loss of her wife, brother, and family, the uncertainty of her future, her growing fear of what was inside of her, and the devastating amount of loss that six hundred years inflicted on a person.
Here was her shattered heart. How could one being see and experience so much change, lose so much, and remain sane?
Eventually, she released Berlioz, delving into a slow, tender rendition of Bach.
Not once during her concert did the neighbor knock on the ceiling.
“Why are you not asleep?” she asked John when she finally set down the bow.
“Because you are not finished playing.” He knew there were more things she needed to say.
It was about the frightening reality of love. Centuries of lying were not easily broken, despite the motivation.
John laid his hand on her thigh and let himself drift. Tomorrow he’d continue his campaign to stitch her to him as tightly as he wanted.
CHAPTER 11
Late into the night, the Harker household finally quieted. Mina had dosed herself with opium-laced brandy and gone to bed, exhausted by Maxwell’s news and her unworldly hysterics. One by one, the Fallen Angels assembled in the kitchen, the one place Mina was guaranteed to avoid. Bright light hurt vampires. Though Mina was an unknown hybrid of human and vampire, she shared the distaste for fire.
The team, on the other hand, found the kitchen oddly comforting. Pans of baking bread were laid on the stove to rise overnight. The earthbound scents of yeast, spices, and fruit raised appetites for more than food.
Maxwell had never heard such violent masturbation as he had tonight before he had spread the word to meet. Everyone on his team had awakened from the passion-killing existence of Headquarters. Maxwell did not want to know what elicited Mina’s desires.
As the leader of this mission, he took his place by the stove and waited for everyone to settle into place. The walls of copper-bottomed pans reflected bizarre, distorted images of the Fallen’s true shapes. In the soft flicker of the gaslight lamps, they draped themselves over chairs and clotheslines, each finally comfortable in their natural form. Some chose composites of Earth animals, others sported the curlicues of imagination. Each of them carried an air of sleepy satisfaction. None showed wings.
Inside, Maxwell sighed. Despite his people’s proud claims of rebellion, spreading their wings could be a painful reminder of what they left behind.
Tonight’s planning session was the first step in changing that.
He opened his briefcase and distributed a number of eight-by-ten glossy photographs.
“Lucifer himself has handpicked us to carry out this mission. Our goal is simple. It is nothing less than the utter destruction of the traitor Lance Soleil.”
His troops shifted. Shock filtered through each mind.
The housemaid flicked her monkey tail. “How are we supposed to do that?” she challenged. “You’re nothing but a paper pusher.”
Murmurs of “Don’t draw attention to yourself,” “Stop it,” and “Oh, for crying out loud,” ran through the crowd. One of them tugged at the maid’s hands, trying to force her to sit. She merely raised her chin at Maxwell.
Once he would have been amused at her confrontation. As they stood on the cusp of his private plan’s fruition, he just wanted to finish.
“For crying out loud, indeed.” Maxwell captured her gaze. “You doubt my abilities?”
The housemaid stared like a snake caught in the glitter of a mongoose’s eyes. Her tail curled underneath her. Her body tucked into a tight little ball.
She had forgotten his reputation. One did not become the highest paper pusher in Revolutionary Headquarters by accident.
Maxwell ran his gaze over the rest of his people. Each showed the requisite amount of fear. He smiled his satisfaction.
“Now that we have gone past the usual foolishness, let us begin. To destroy Lance, we will capture his Guide and hold him hostage.”
His underlings gaped in horror.
Guides were off-limits for Revolutionary activities. Kidnapping one could lead to a second cosmic war between those Above and the Rebellion.
Moral rules entrenched into the very fabric of the Earth’s existence mandated that Guides were treated as sacred entities.
With his back to the oven and the subordinates at his feet, Maxwell reigned supreme over the darkened world of
this pocket universe. His empty heart expanded with what he remembered was joy. His arms spread to encompass each of them.
At the end of this, they would all be free.
“The Guide, John Janté, must remain unharmed. Not a hair on his head misplaced or a ruffle on his shirt wrinkled, because the Guide is not our true goal. Lucifer wants Lance Soleil back in our fold.”
Everyone nodded, following him.
“That is what Lucifer wants. Let us talk finally of what we want.” He leaned forward and his troops huddled in closer. When one spoke treason against the First, it was best to whisper.
“There is another way to escape our fate. With the Guide, all of us shall escape the hopelessness of our lives.”
“What is the plan?” the housemaid murmured.
“I will reveal only one step at a time. If we fail, it is best if you can claim ignorance.” Maxwell pointed to the butler and three footmen. “You take Janté. Create a car, and meet us at one of the hot zones.” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “According to Lucifer, Lance is still young and limited in his powers. He will have trouble finding us and that will incur his wrath. Once he is weakened from the search, we will fill him with pride.” He paused for a few seconds, increasing the anticipation. “I know we each have confidence in Lucifer’s plan.”
The small band exchanged secret smiles. They had confidence it would fail.
“There is one small complication. For the last few weeks, this pregnant woman has shared our target’s apartment.” Maxwell handed out the pictures of Valerie Tate. The team studied her.
In the pictures, she stood in her bra and panties, her distended stomach protruding from her slender body like a shelf. A glass filled with a dark fluid hid her mouth. She had large eyes and an angular face softened only by impending motherhood.
“No problem,” the butler said.
“She looks harmless, but stay away from her. Take him when she is not watching,” Maxwell warned.
Dracula's Desires Page 5
