“We just gonna kiss?” John murmured.
“You got a better idea?” Lance hummed as he licked the inside of John’s elbow.
“You could actually take my pants off,” John suggested. “And put that mouth of yours to some real good.”
Lance whipped John’s slacks off too fast for mortal eyes to see.
“I’m going to make you see God,” Lance warned, his fist stroking John’s cock head.
“Minerva, we’re home,” Lance called as the three carried their suitcases into the apartment. “Did Glenath and Anthony behave around you?” he thought at her.
“No drug-fueled orgies!” She sounded disappointed.
Orgy? Lance stared at John in shock.
John shrugged. “So the kid’s precocious. We can handle it.”
BONUS CHAPTER
GLENATH AND ANTHONY’S FIRST DAY
Prague, 1969
The girl looked about thirteen with her hippie hairband and orange bell-bottom pants. When she stopped by his box to light her cigarette, Anthony O’Neill couldn’t help but call out, “Hey! Does your mother know you smoke?”
The girl exhaled smoke through her nose before answering.
“Does your mother know you accost women on the street for no good reason?” she replied tartly. With that, she flicked her ash, away from his little nest of cardboard and blankets, and continued on her way. “And for God’s own sake, take a bath!”
Pert thing, he thought through the haze of blood and alcohol he had numbed himself with for the last twenty years. He shifted to go back to sleep. Anthony hoped that he wouldn’t dream of his mother and sisters again. As he closed his eyes, the girl entered a nondescript government building.
He sat bolt upright. The same building he had observed a small army of werewolves enter less than an hour ago. That little girl was going to get eaten.
Anthony shuffled himself out of his tangled blankets, haunted by the memory of the women he couldn’t protect before. As he stood, paper fluttered all around him. Confused, he focused through his cloud of booze.
Nearly five hundred francs lay on his bedroll. That rude infant had given him enough money for a room, a bath, and real blood.
Her curls of smoke still lingered in the air as he gathered up the money. Most dragons hoarded their treasure, instead of sharing it with others.
Anthony decided he’d better hurry.
What in God’s own name reduced a vampire to living on the streets in such squalor? Everyone knew that the undead were fastidious creatures, preferring cleanliness and comfortable surroundings.
Glenath Tempesta hurried through the empty corridors of the former military building. Her sandaled feet barely made any noise against the scuffed marble.
Two years ago, when she enrolled in seminary, she wrote to Luc Breton, the Great Wolf. According to legend, the European Great Wolf was the head of all the Shadow Creatures, able to make binding agreements on behalf of the paranormal society.
Her secret correspondence had culminated with him agreeing to meet her here, alone, in this very building.
Her legs shook. She sincerely wished she toked up before this. At least she would have died feeling really groovy.
Oh, no. Instead she had to do this sober. She twitched her jacket around her neck. At least the pile of papers she hid in her roommates’ birth control basket would tell the world what happened, and how to dispose of her remains.
Glenath shook out her shoulders, threw her head back, and changed her scurry to a strut. She’d gotten further in getting humans and supernaturals to speak to one another than anyone before. That would be a fitting legacy.
This had to be done. She could no more stand back and watch the species destroy each other than she could let a child stand in the middle of a busy street.
She was going to make Luc Breton agree with her. Even if it took her giving him indigestion for the rest of his life.
“You’re afraid,” Luc jeered, pleased at her scent. Even the scent of her fancy Parisian cigarettes couldn’t overcome the smell of her fear.
“Of course I am,” she replied. “I am not a great fool.”
The obnoxious human looked him in the eye. She couldn’t have been older than fourteen.
“Nor am I a liar. I came alone. I see that you did not.”
How did she ever see his bodyguards hidden in the shadows? Jake, his enforcer, stepped to stand behind the petite girl.
She stiffened, but kept talking. “I would say that makes you even more afraid than I am.”
Luc’s mother had once told him, “You can laugh, you can cry, or you can destroy those who challenge you.”
Luc nodded at Jake.
The man gripped the girl’s untamed brown hair and exposed her throat to Luc. She kicked with surprising effectiveness, but couldn’t break Jake’s hold.
“I have no fear of you. We are stronger. We are faster. We rule the night.”
“How many litters have been killed in the last week, Great Wolf?”
Did the child ever stop talking? He dug his claws into her chest, puncturing the skin.
“Twenty-five pups have been murdered in the last week, Great Wolf.”
How did she manage to make his title sound like an insult? He bit her shoulder, warning her.
But she didn’t scream. She didn’t even stop talking. “Thirty the week before. We are destroying you.”
Luc couldn’t take her chatter anymore. He set his teeth into her throat. No one would find her body.
“Now really, Luc. Is that necessary?”
A red-haired vampire pushed himself off the doorjamb. The girl’s eyes widened at the freshly bathed and dressed vampire. He tapped a police baton against one thigh.
First, an idealist, now a vampire with a great big stick. It was too much. Luc threw his hands in the air.
“Fine. I give up. Let’s talk.”
See how Valerie and Lance’s story began in Linda Mercury’s
DRACULA’S SECRET.
A Kensington e-book exclusive on sale now.
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PROLOGUE
Wallachia
November 25, 1431
She swam in an ocean of blood.
The exhausted, dark-haired mother howled in pain and freedom as the crown of a baby’s head emerged from between her legs. The woman panted and heaved, thrashing her sweat-and gore-drenched body from side to side. Snow mixed with thunder and rain lashed the tower of the family castle, chilling the already-icy room.
Vlad Dracul crouched at her feet, his face stiff and set under his mustache. His outstretched fingers curled into fists and opened again as he waited for the infant to emerge. Blankets, rags, and a pot of steaming water at his elbow kept him company. His jaw clenched with every echoing scream and his shoulders tightened with every passing moment. Not even the usual rushing of the river below covered the cries of Cneajna, his wife.
The violent storm outside had prevented the midwife’s presence. Earlier in the night, the mother had demanded that only Vlad remain with her as the pain worsened. No one defied Cneajna, even as water and blood rushed down her legs and painted her body. Vlad knew, however, that the women of the castle waited in the downstairs chamber, ready to help if he called. He was absurdly grateful for their nearness.
Fearless in the face of death, Vlad had nearly fainted at the sight of his wife in labor. The smell of the birth blood that saturated the bed roiled his stomach in ways a festering abdominal wound never did.
Another contraction. She pulled the ropes tied to the furlined headboard of the birth bed. The wood groaned under her strength as wave after wave of labor shuddered her body. Vlad’s heart winced at his woman’s pale, sweating face.
Another scream shook the room and Vlad saw the first peep of a black-haired head. Under the power of the mother’s undulating body, a tiny, angry face emerged.
After what seemed endless pushing, the wrinkled, red-coated baby escaped into the father’s hands.<
br />
As he took the messy, wet infant, he frowned in disappointment. “A girl,” he said, his voice carefully neutral and quiet. The baby’s chin and chest were coated in blood and water.
“Let me hold her before you do what you must.” Anger and failure visible on her face Cneajna held out her arms. Even on the edge of collapse, she remained matter-of-fact as always. She knew what would have to be done. Her tight mouth told Vlad that she very much did not approve.
No need to say more. The eldest, Mircea, at four, was vulnerable as their only son. The House of Basarab desperately needed heirs. Vlad needed strong arms to defend their home from the encroaching Ottomans. Not a daughter.
Vlad’s frown deepened. The thought of exposure upset his wife, but they could not expend the time and energy on a girl. Alliances, dowries, protection, another mouth to feed. He held his hands out for the child. Reluctantly, his wife handed her over.
Then it happened.
The baby stared him down with an enraged gaze. A tiny but strong fist wrapped around his middle finger. Fingernails the size of a pea pricked his skin. The little girl knew what he planned.
This child would survive exposure and find a way to take revenge on any who wronged her. A strange shiver ran down Vlad’s back. Minutes old, still wet, and the infant’s will was a force to be reckoned with. Vlad did not want to be on the wrong end of a twisted Oedipus story.
In order to prevent ruin, they would have to do something unexpected.
He wiped the blood from the baby’s face and contemplated the wild idea blooming in his head. Vlad prided himself on being practical, but this verged on the insane. It had to be done, though. He touched a gentle finger to the little one’s already strong chin, silently sealing the deal between them. The Dracul family would raise this child instead of killing her, and in return, she would not destroy them.
Vlad handed the baby over.
“We keep her?” Surprise and pleasure warmed his wife’s voice.
“Yes.” Vlad congratulated himself on his good decision.
The mother placed the baby’s head at her breast. Milk sprayed the newborn in the face before tiny lips latched on. Smiling, his wife nursed their new son. “We will raise a boy, then?”
Cneajna could always read his mind. Vlad twisted his back, first to the left, then the right. Bones thunked together and he sighed in relief. For a quiet second, they smiled at each other, in accord once again.
The moment didn’t last. She shouted his name, and he rushed to help with the afterbirth. Long, slippery minutes later, he gently wiped her body with warm rags. Finally, he was able to embrace his exhausted wife.
As they lay together on fresh bed furs, watching their new son eat, they tested Vlad’s idea for flaws.
“What if we are found out?” he asked.
“Have we ever feared failure?” Fierce as always, his wife didn’t even look up as she defied fate and charted a new destiny. “No one else can ever know. Not even our other children.”
He nodded, pleased. How this woman suited him. Vlad touched their son’s soft forehead and kissed his wife’s bare shoulder.
“Very well, then. I will name him Vladimir.”
CHAPTER 1
Portland, Oregon
Halloween Night, Present Day
His sun pierced her night.
Valerie Tate stopped dead at the sudden stabbing pain and clapped her leather-gloved hands over her sensitive eyes. She’d been running full speed from rooftop to rooftop in an effort to bypass the clogged holiday traffic between her and her destination. Portland’s nighttime rain had merely cloaked her progress instead of slowing her down.
The flare of light, brighter than a magnesium bomb exploding in her face, now left her stunned, blind, and helpless. Anyone looking out over the skyline could see her. Not something she wanted.
She crouched, one foot poised over the lip of a building’s crown. One wrong step and she’d fall off. It wouldn’t be a fatal drop, but it would certainly slow her down. Better to risk being seen up here, prancing about like some crazed musical number, than sprawled out on the pavement in the middle of the Halloween crowd.
Valerie probed the skin on her face. Unlike contact with magnesium and direct sunlight, she hadn’t blistered or burned in response. Good. That would have ruined her evening’s plans. Much depended on her appearance not gathering too much attention.
Blood seeped from under her eyelids in response to the too-bright shine. Under the cover of her palms, she blinked away the achingly intense spots floating before her vision.
How could this happen? Once, a magnesium bomb had detonated next to her. Even as her skin peeled back, she had kept going. Nothing broke her concentration during a mission. Six hundred years of killing had taught her well.
Shock gave way to curiosity. Curiosity then unraveled her single-minded determination. She wiped the tears of blood off of her face and carefully squinted against the glare that surrounded the figure below. As her vision cleared, she saw him, surrounded by the aura that had halted her.
What was he, this man three stories below her, innocently checking his text messages on a silver BlackBerry? As her eyes adapted, she studied him with all her undead senses.
Not soap, not cologne, but his essence was the second thing that struck her. The aroma of cloves, sweet and hot, rammed up her nose like a fist, overwhelming the car exhaust and excrement odors rising from busy Burnside Avenue. The fiery smell transformed her anger into something far more complicated. Hunger beyond blood clenched her stomach and parts below. Startled, she stood. She licked her teeth, swallowed her desire, and studied his face.
The endless Northwest autumn drizzle plastered blond hair to his skull. He glanced up from his little machine, obviously aware that someone watched him. To Valerie’s surprise, he found her, even up high with her black clothes against the black night.
She locked her knees against a shudder when she saw his blue eyes. Not any shade of blue, but the color of icy seas under the full moon. Even covered in worn jeans and a frayed but high-end sweatshirt, his broad-shouldered body made her mouth pucker, ready to kiss. A generous bulge in his pants caught her attention, lewdly contrasting to the brightness of his innocent shine.
It didn’t make sense. His perfect, confident posture and chiseled, patrician features marked him as the kind who should be swinging a tennis racket on some blue-blood tennis court.
Why this strong of a reaction to this man on this rainy night? She had sworn off sex for more decades than she cared to remember. Thousands of handsome, well-built, and brave women and men had passed in front of her over the years.
The most she’d felt was a few flickers of interest. Now, her thighs flexed against the hot kernel between her legs.
The headlights from a bus lit him up even brighter. And she saw his true nature.
A warrior, home from the front lines, sick of violence but caught in it. That eye-searing shine was not innocence, for lines of hard-won worldly knowledge bracketed his sensually shaped lips. Exhaustion creased the corners of those extravagantly gorgeous eyes and lived between his eyebrows. Instead of purity, he lit the night with the ferocity of his spirit.
He turned away from her to face the door of the building behind him, denial in every line of his body.
Valerie sucked in an unnecessary breath of cold, clove-scented air.
Only the best of humanity had that shine: people who were dedicated to making the world better for everyone, not just themselves. She’d seen that glow in such disparate people from Mother Teresa to a pubescent boy protecting two toddler girls from a rapist in Rwanda.
This one had a Higher Calling.
Bad news.
Higher Callings meant certain failure to their vehicles. She exhaled.
Poverty still ran rampant in Kolkata. Rwanda still seethed with heartrending pain, even though Valerie killed the rapist and saved the children. Valerie twisted her lips at the memory. He’d tasted terrible. There simply wasn’t enough m
outhwash in the world to get rid of that foul aftertaste.
Worse, those well-meaning Higher Calling fools always tried to suck her into their causes. Those idiots dared to claim her fight, her redemption, was less worthy than their dreams.
No promise of sunshine was worth that risk. The steady rain cooled her arousal. Time to go.
The moon broke through the patchy cloud cover, illuminating the night. Disregarding gravity’s pull, she leaned forward. It was too short of a drop to concern her now that she could see.
Darkness lay against his purity like rotted fruit on snow.
Valerie’s own darkness quickened at what those throbbing spots revealed. Her damned soul laughed at the irony. It was inevitable now. This man had secrets of his own. Things he thought no one could forgive.
Just like her.
As though he couldn’t help himself, he glanced over his shoulder at her. His own up-and-down glance caught her as surely as a wasp in hot tar. She knew what he saw—a slender woman dressed in an expensive black coat and trousers. Red lipstick, pale skin, nails painted in dark burgundy. Gray suede designer shoes, from some outrageous but already forgotten New York store. Feminine, dark, and very upper-class. This illusion would allow her to penetrate the security around tonight’s target.
Passion sucked at her skin the moment he touched her with extended senses. The man was able to search her aura? Her nipples tightened into tight pearls.
The heat stroked and clung to her, ratcheting her arousal higher. Only fierce willpower kept her from an orgasm. Two could play this game. She returned his brazen, searing stare. When she lowered her eyelids and softened her lips, he shifted to the balls of his feet.
How could this be? Very few humans could probe secrets the way paranormal beings could. What was he to have such extraordinary powers?
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