• • •
Darting in and out of narrow streets in the French Quarter, Wim thought he’d lost his shadows several times the last hour, only to find one or both of the d’Argent clansmen waiting for him at every turn. Patience. Although this cat-and-mouse game was becoming old very quickly, Wim schooled himself not to make any foolish moves.
It was almost as if he were the prey, they the stalkers. A bell rang out twelve times, its sound muffled by air heavy with moisture and the mingled sweat of mortal bodies. The eerie shadows cast by streetlamps should have scared the hell out of the tourists, but the idiots seemed determined to party, oblivious to the evil that might befall them under the curtain of darkness.
If he had time, he’d sip life from the throat of one of the foolish women who stared at him with horror . . . and apparent fascination. He didn’t, though. Not seeing his nemeses, he darted through the swinging doors of a bar, determined to escape them.
The sounds of jazz music, mellow saxophones and blaring trumpets, assaulted his ears. He glanced around, found a corner table. It took him only a moment to realize this was no ordinary bar—but one of the upscale vampire establishments where those of his own kind who were too timid to take nourishment direct from mortals went to get their nourishment. His d’Argent shadows appeared seconds later, taking seats at the carved antique bar and shooting him matched stares after ordering whatever it was they intended to drink.
He watched them, wished he dared try to take down both burly specimens while they quenched their thirst. Discarding that idea as foolhardy, Wim tried to relax, prepare himself for the moment when he could ambush them from behind. They had to sleep sometime, though Wim had never been out when at least one of them hadn’t been lurking, watching him.
“What can I get you?” A waiter, dark-haired with prominent fangs, shot Wim an expectant look.
“O positive.” Though he’d never considered the blood type of his victims, he’d overheard another customer ordering A negative in a haughty-sounding voice. He figured his taste was more plebeian, as was his wallet.
In a moment the waiter set a draft before him, then disappeared with the ten-dollar bill Wim had laid down. He lifted the glass, took a sip of the vapid stuff. Damn, but he’d rather take his sustenance from the source, where he had no need to pay. He studied the menu, scoffed silently. Reynards had no need for the fancy vintages or additives this place charged dearly for—niceties that catered to d’Argents and other vampires with aristocratic credentials. And, he added, to the local offshoots of evil African sorcerers. The Owengas of the world seemed to have congregated in New Orleans and made this bar their own. A large party of them gyrated to the beat of the music, a sensual dance as sultry as the Louisiana climate.
Wim hated to admit it, but he was no physical match for both burly vampires. Possibly not for either one of them. He wasn’t certain they possessed all the usual vampire skills, but he dared not take chances. Reaching in his pocket, he clutched the vial. What did it contain? His blood mother had never said. Not that it mattered so long as the potion worked. It had to work. He couldn’t get rid of his shadows any other way. He stared at the dark red fluid in his beer stein and wondered . . .
Would the powder dissolve in blood? He opened the vial and shook a small amount of it into his own drink. Watched it disappear into the drink. He held up the glass, found it looked the same—like the blood it was. Yes, this could work. If he could get close enough to the two vampires, he could drug their drinks. The potion might not be strong enough to destroy them, more was the pity, but it should put them out of commission long enough for him to get away and destroy their queen.
To do it, though, he would have to get close to them without arousing suspicion, but that seemed impossible in the crush of bodies. Mellow sounds of jazz filled the small room, and a clutch of Owenga swayed to its rhythm on the dance floor that separated him from his nemeses. Wim sighed. He’d have to do something quickly, before he used up the paltry store of money he’d taken from the pockets of his last meal down on the levee.
“You look like a man who needs a woman, monsieur.” The whore—apparently a vampire herself, as she was sipping from a champagne flute filled with dark red fluid—perched on the corner of Wim’s table and hiked her skirt up to where he could see her pale labia, smell her musk. Her blood-red talons caught his eye when she ran the tip of one nail along the inside of his forearm. Obviously she wasn’t aware he had no use for her services.
Yet—Wim hesitated, glanced over toward the bar. “How much for a dance, chérie?”
“Twenty dollars.”
That would leave him with only thirty more to pay the woman to drug the d’Argents’ drinks. But he had no choice. Reaching in his pocket, he fingered the vial before pulling it out with a dingy twenty. “Here.” Wim took the whore’s hand and dragged her onto the dance floor, pushing his way through the crowd of Owengas until they stood at the corner of the bar. “I’ll give you thirty more if you spill some of this into the drinks of those two.”
She snatched up the money, slid it down between her two generous breasts. “This will not destroy them, will it?”
Fuck. He’d picked a whore with some semblance of conscience. “No, chérie, it will only make them sleep. Now do it, or give me back my money.”
“Don’t be quarrelsome, now. You can’t expect me to destroy macho males like them for thirty dollars. Give me the vial and I will help them go to sleep.”
She popped the cap off the vial and shot Wim a disgusted look. “Most of my customers prefer a more personal kind of service.” Her smile bordered on a sneer as she stepped up to the bar and began to hustle the d’Argent vampires he’d pointed out to her.
Wim dared not breathe. Pure torture, it was, watching and waiting to see if the woman did his bidding. She laughed then turned to her second target. Do it now, bitch. He clenched his fists, felt his fangs elongating.
In slow motion, she leaned across one broad chest and dropped some of the powder from the vial into one drink. Then she turned back to the other vampire and stroked between his muscular thighs. Finish it. I’ll fucking destroy you if you fail. Why had he picked a whore who obviously enjoyed plying her trade?
Just as he was about to go, fling the woman out of the way and drug his other enemy himself, Wim saw her empty the vial into the second bodyguard’s drink. Fuck, it was taking too long. As he was about to slip away, hoping the whore had his shadows’ full attention, he saw first one and then the other hit the floor.
The whore swirled around his way, obviously distressed that she’d put both of her potential johns out of commission. The bartender looked surprised when he delivered two more drafts to the empty places where the d’Argent guards had been sitting. “Hey, what’s going on there?” he asked.
The whore knelt beside one bodyguard. “Better get a healer. I think this one’s close to dead.”
Wim couldn’t have cared less. But he had no desire to be caught up in the investigation the stupid bitch’s comments had surely triggered. Not when the guard who’d gotten the smaller dose of poison would likely be up and after him before too long. Making his way through the crowd of Owenga, Wim stepped out into the warm, humid night and made his way out of the Quarter. Taking to the air, he headed toward the house where he’d first begun his assignment of watching over Alina d’Argent. He’d watch over her, all right, destroy her and any mortal foolish enough to challenge him.
Chapter Five
Alina woke suddenly. She sensed . . . but no, this uneasy feeling had to have come because she’d been sleeping at a time when she generally was wide awake. She looked over, warmed at the sight of Sam, his face younger-looking as he slept. Laying her hand on his muscular chest, she enjoyed the reassuring beat of his heart, the feeling that he cherished her.
His eyelids fluttered then opened. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
“Nothing. I guess I’m not accustomed to sleeping at night.” But there was something. Some danger she cou
ldn’t quite define but which permeated the heavy air like the slowly rotating blades of the ceiling fan at the center of Sam’s bedroom. She focused her gaze on the lightly swaying curtains—pale ghosts, formless yet giving a silent warning. She couldn’t will herself to stop trembling. “Sam, I’m afraid.”
“Come here and let me hold you.”
She couldn’t move other than to shake so hard the bed vibrated beneath her. This wasn’t . . . Philippe, where are you. Jacques?
Sorry. Shouldn’t have trusted that Owenga wench . . . We let him get away.
That had to be Philippe, but why did he sound so sleepy? What is wrong? Where is Jacques?
Drugged. Both of us. Jacques got most of it. He’s . . . destroyed. Alina heard the catch in Philippe’s voice, imagined him checking Jacques for some sign of life. Watch out. Reynard bastard is coming after you . . . I’m coming, my lady . . . Hang on.
Philippe’s voice trailed off. Nothing more came from his mind. Alina turned to Sam. “Reynard has drugged the bodyguards who were tailing him. Quickly. Hide. I will try to dissuade the bastard from destroying me.” Helplessness ate at her gut. Why couldn’t female d’Argents fight as well as their male counterparts? “Go. Go now. I feel his presence.”
“I’m staying.” Sam stood, gloriously naked, his fists clenched. He’d barely had time to grab the silver dagger from the nightstand drawer when Wim Reynard burst through the French doors, his eyes red with bloodlust, his yellowed fangs extended for the kill.
Taking a fighting stance, Sam lifted the dagger and snarled, “Come on, vampire, I’m not afraid of you.”
Oh, no. Alina tried to step between them but Sam flung her aside. Damn it, she couldn’t even stop Sam—a mortal—even if it might have saved his life. She recalled Stefan telling her that while she might lack fighting skill, she had the strongest mind of them all. Heartened, she summoned all her strength, sent an urgent mental call for help to the men of her clan.
She watched Wim Reynard survey his surroundings, size up his opponent. Bloodlust glowed in his eyes as he took one step toward Sam, then another. His fangs elongated. “I am going to destroy you, mortal. Suck out your blood.”
“Sam, run. He’s going to kill you.” Alina couldn’t bear the thought of losing another one of her own. And she definitely considered Sam hers.
“Not if I destroy him first.” Sam charged Reynard, got in a punch that set the vampire reeling against the wall. A picture fell, glass shattering all over the floor and hindering Sam’s motion. Alina tossed a blanket over the shards of glass to protect Sam’s bare feet. Breathing hard, he lifted the dagger, lunged at his enemy. “Take a look. It’s silver. That’s right, duck away. I’ll get him anyhow.”
Male bravado. Alina moved in again, hoping to distract Reynard and give Sam a clear shot at putting the vampire out of commission. She looked with horror as Sam stabbed Reynard—and Reynard’s clawlike hands closed around Sam’s thick neck, their hold vicious . . . killing . . .
“Stop. I order you, stop.” Alina dug her nails into Reynard’s skinny arms until his blood flowed over his pale fingers . . . over Sam’s cooling flesh. Tears obscured her vision as she pounded on the bastard’s back while he kept on choking Sam. Why couldn’t I have been a man . . . or at least been given a man’s strength?
“Because the fates willed that you be a woman. Strong in mind so as to lead us well.” When Alina turned to the voice she saw Philippe. “Get out of my way. I’ll take special pleasure in finishing the bastard off. He destroyed Jacques.”
Alina moved, her attention now not on Wim Reynard but on Sam, whose face had turned to a mottled mass of blue and red—listening for a heartbeat, a noise, anything to give her hope that he still lived. She barely noticed when Philippe pried Reynard’s hands from around Sam’s thick neck and tossed the evil vampire onto his back. From the corner of her eye she saw Philippe pull Sam’s silver dagger from Reynard’s chest and plunge it once again, this time directly into his black heart. The fetid odor of toxic vampire blood filled her nostrils, and the sucking sound of death rang out in the darkness.
“He is finished.” Philippe sounded tired, his bloodlust apparently tempered by the knowledge his friend and lover lay dead at Reynard’s evil hand. Alina, too, had mixed feelings. For her clan’s sake she rejoiced in this Reynard henchman’s demise. For her own sake she mourned for the man she loved. The man whose existence could only be spared by doing what he’d specifically told her he didn’t want. Turning him into one of them—a vampire destined never to have the power of one born, ineligible for a position of authority in her clan.
She knelt beside Sam, her tears falling onto his cooling skin. “My darling mortal, I don’t have a choice now,” she whispered. “I have to turn you now.” Trembling, she positioned his head and aligned her fangs with the jugular vein, yet she hesitated. Did she have the right to make him into something he’d already refused to become?
“This Reynard lackey will not be harming anyone again.” Philippe’s voice, still slow and deep as though the drug still held him in its evil clutches, made her turn and look as the bodyguard jerked the bloody dagger from Reynard’s chest. “Not after I do this.” Raising the dead vampire’s head by his hair, Philippe made a vicious chop with the dagger, burying it deep into his throat.
“Be very certain Reynard does not rise again.” Though bloodlust generally sickened her, Alina relished the thought of this enemy being beheaded . . . or staked out in the fierce New Orleans sunlight until his remains turned into a cloud of dust. She let out a small shudder. “I don’t care how you accomplish this.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will do it. With pleasure.” Only wish I were not so sleepy. Got to avenge my lover . . . my queen . . . for what you did this night.
She felt for Philippe, shared his pain for the loss of Jacques. But right now her concern was for Sam. Frantically, she felt for a pulse that wasn’t there, found his heart deadly still when she placed her hand over his chest. She looked up at Philippe. “The Reynard upstart has destroyed the man I love too.”
Philippe laid his bloody hands on her shoulders, pulled her away. “Perhaps not, my queen. Perhaps Sam Quill is but ready to come over to our side.”
“He didn’t want to be one of us,” Alina said, her voice so low she could barely hear herself. “I asked him.”
“You know, I wasn’t too keen on changing, either, but I’ve got no regrets now for having had a lot of good years with Jacques.” Philippe’s eyes clouded, then cleared as he looked down at Sam. “Well, now, this one has a choice between becoming a vampire and being dead. And it looks as though you’re going to have to make that choice for him.” Philippe’s fangs elongated as he spoke. “I can turn him if you wish.” He sounded drawn, tired. Some of the drug that had killed Jacques must still have been coursing through his veins.
Alina bent and placed a kiss on Sam’s cooling cheek. Then she looked up at Philippe. “No. I will do it, even though he may very well hate me afterward. You finish off Reynard, until you are very certain he is destroyed, never to attack anyone again. Then find yourself a bed and rest. I cannot lose you too.” With infinite care she lifted Sam’s head and rested it on her lap. As Philippe dragged Reynard’s carcass out into the courtyard, Alina steeled herself to do what she knew Sam wouldn’t have wanted. And summoned Stefan, Claude and Alex to her side to take part in the ritual that must follow the change.
Then she smoothed her hair back and lowered her head. “I’m sorry, my love. I will never go against your wishes again. I wouldn’t do it now but I can’t bear to lose you this way.” Moving quickly before she could lose her courage, she sank her fangs into his jugular vein, now still, where before it had pulsated invitingly when they made love. And drank her fill. And sat there, holding the newly made vampire in her arms, watching the transformation from mortal to vampire take place. When he woke, he’d be ravenous for his first meal. And furious.
• • •
“This one looks to be destroyed beyond recov
ery, even for a Reynard.” Stefan d’Argent looked at the decapitated vampire on the whitewashed brick floor of the courtyard beyond the door. Then he stepped inside and saw Alina sitting on the floor, cradling his wife’s father on her lap. “Julie, wait outside.” He snatched the coverlet off the bed and tossed it over Sam’s naked body.
“I will not. That’s my father’s room. What is it you’re not telling me?” Ignoring her new husband, Julie bounded into the room, her pale blonde hair tangled from what Alina imagined must have been a frantic flight from Stefan’s castle. “Dad! Oh, God. Tell me he’s not dead.”
“He is not dead . . .” Should she tell Julie now, or wait until Sam awakened, when his change would become evident. Alina hesitated a moment, then met Julie’s gaze. “But he is now one of us.”
“Oh, no.” Julie’s eyes widened with apparent dismay. She tightened her hold on Noodles, the sleek red dachshund that was hers and Stefan’s constant companion.
“No? I remember you begging me to turn you, my darling.” Stefan looked up from the floor where he’d knelt to examine the remains of Wim Reynard, his look one of gentle amusement. “Have you not been happy?”
“Oh, yes. But I wanted to be with you. Daddy wouldn’t have wanted—”
“He wouldn’t have wanted to die now, either, but that’s what he did, while he was saving me from him.” Alina gestured toward the open French door, where the villain’s headless body lay just outside. “I hope you can help me persuade your father that becoming a vampire is not a fate worse than death.”
Julie sighed when Stefan stood and gathered her in his arms. “He looks so pale. So . . . uncomfortable. Stefan, please put him on the bed.”
“Alina?” Stefan’s voice registered concern, reminded her she was behaving more like a love-struck schoolgirl than the queen of their clan.
Stalking the Dark Page 6
