Gifted: Obey Me

by Paige Cuccaro

  Alex shifted his upper body, kept the distance. My eyes shuttered open.

  He smiled, rubbed his thumbs against my arms. “You’re a beautiful girl, Sophie. And those powers, your ability to dominate, to rule my kind with your mind…” He glanced away, exhaled. “I can’t begin to describe the erotic temptation. But I…I have to go.”

  He dropped his hands and stepped around me, heading for my kitchen and, like a dim-witted puppy, I followed.

  “Come to the club tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ve got an idea who’s behind these murders. I’ll arrange for him to be there.” He glanced at me, his hand on the tall window that opened onto my fire escape.

  “Yeah. Right. You bet.”

  “Great. See you there.” He swooped close and kissed my cheek then straightened. His perfect white smile plumped his sun-kissed cheeks and sparked in the pure blue of his eyes. He winked, then turned and in one fluid movement leapt up and through the window, vanishing into the night.

  I stood there staring at the empty space where he’d been, my body still humming with the narcotic affect of his kiss, the feel of his hands on me, his scent still swirling through my lungs and I thought, what the… Maybe they had put garlic in my lunch salad.

  Chapter Four

  “Merlo, you got company. And where’s my exclusive on that alley DB from the other night?” Micky Boyle, my editor, liked to make an entrance. He blew through the newsroom, too busy and important to actually stand still while he spoke.

  I called my power without even realizing I was doing it. The hairs at the back of my neck tingled. “Gimme another twenty-four hours, Mick, and I’ll have a deeper angle.”

  He stopped. Looked at me. “You know what, take twenty-seven. I want you to really dig deep on this one. Find the story underneath the news.”

  “You got it, boss.” A twinge of guilt prickled down my back. I didn’t like using my power on the everyday people in my life. I didn’t like the feeling I was cheating to get ahead in my career. Every other reporter who made it to the big leagues managed it without the power of suggestion. So could I. Mostly.

  “Miss Sophie Merlo?” I snapped my head up following the sound of the male voice next to my desk. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Yeah?”

  He looked like a soccer dad in leather. He was bald, kind of short, maybe five-six, with a small paunch around the midsection that puffed out the bottom of his zipped leather jacket. He wore black leather chaps over jeans, clunky black leather biker boots and carried a black biker helmet with his leather gloves sticking out. Not sure what gave him the soccer-dad look to me, maybe the soft brown eyes and the laugh lines around the mouth. Just too sweet to be biker bad.

  He held out an envelope, greeting card sized, aged, tea-stained color, not white.

  I took the envelope and read my name scrawled in fancy red handwriting, then flipped it over. The back was sealed with a glob of red wax and pressed with a stamp that read, Sinners, and lettered like you’d see on a diploma. I glanced back to the leather-clad messenger. “Who sent this?”

  He didn’t answer and I looked back to the envelope, sixth sense tickling at the base of my spine. The letter was heavy and thick. The wax seal broke when I tugged, and I pulled out the multilayered cards. The main card matched the envelope with a graphic of the Sinners red-wax seal at the center and opened like double doors. Inside was a smaller matching card, an invitation with a sheet of red tissue paper in between. Beneath the tissue paper was a response envelope.

  I glanced at the biker messenger again. “You’re not waiting for a reply now, are you?”

  Again he didn’t answer, his gaze locked on me, brow smooth, his mouth a straight, thin-lipped line. He gave nothing away, no expression. He just stood there…watching. I read the invitation.

  Dear Miss Sophie Merlo,

  You are cordially invited as my personal guest for an evening of cocktails and fine dining at my five star restaurant, Sinners. 8:00 pm, all necessities will be provided. I predict it will be a night you will not soon forget.

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Octavius Perrotte

  I’d probably be a little more impressed if I knew who the heck Octavius Perrotte was. There was only one option. I accept your invitation. I flipped it over. Nothing. I looked inside the little response envelope. Empty. I checked inside the big envelope and all through the wasted paper cards. Nothing.

  “Well that’s stupid. What if I don’t want to go? What if I can’t?” I stared at soccer dad, biker-dude wannabe. He didn’t answer and it was really starting to piss me off.

  My eyes closed to help me focus and I reached for that pool of desire somewhere in the far recesses of my mind. I want answers. Electricity tingled at the back of my neck, a soft vibration humming through my head.

  I opened my eyes. “You should tell me why this Octavius Perrotte person wants to meet with me.”

  His brow creased and he shook his head. His mouth opened and shut twice. “I…he—he didn’t tell me.”

  Biker dude’s brow creased harder and he clenched his lips together so tight they turned white around the edges. He was fighting my suggestion. The only people I’d ever met who could fight my suggestion were vampires and I’d met all of them within the last two days. Sheesh, when it rains it pours.

  I called more power, careful not to give myself migraine. “Why don’t you just tell me if you’re a vampire,” I suggested.

  “Yes. I. Am.”

  Perfect. If he was a vamp it made sense the guy who sent the invitation was too. “You could warn me if I should be worried about Mr. Perrotte’s intentions.”

  “Yes. Worry… Yes.” Surprise stretched his eyes, quickly replaced by anger. “Stop it, or I’ll drain you right here, bitch.”

  “Right. Like you could. I’d bleed worse from a paper cut.” Not exactly accurate but close enough to make my point. Having friends in the know was a good thing. I stood calling another tug of power and throwing it into my voice. “I think you should tell me who Perrotte is, how he knows me, what exactly this is all about. Does he mean me any harm?”

  Biker dude, shook his head, his lips a white puckered line, his eyes growing wider by the second. He backpedaled right into the desk of Janice, from the Lifestyles section. Pencils rattled in the holder, a picture fell over, but biker dude just slid around the desk, eyes locked on mine shaking his head.

  “Hey. Where’re you going? I think you should answer my questions first.” Tiny electric sparks snapped and crackled over my skin, down my back, my brain hummed with power.

  Biker dude’s hand went to his mouth, his head shaking. “No. No. He… Mr. Perrotte, he…he… No. Stop it. Stop it.” The vamp turned and ran, leaving the newsroom door swinging behind him.

  Drat. Was he saying no to my questions or no to himself? In twenty-seven years, Alex was the only person who’d managed to completely resist my suggestion, so my gut wanted to believe Perrotte’s messenger was answering despite his efforts not to. And the only question I’d actually asked was did Perrotte mean me any harm. No.

  Still, it seemed kind of coincidental that, according to Alex, a vampire was trying to frame him for the murders of four women and now, after being seen with him at the club last night, this vamp wants to meet. This Perrotte guy could be the one setting up Alex. Or was Alex the one trying to put one over on me? I just didn’t know.

  I locked my apartment door—all three locks, and straightened the cross I’d nailed over the threshold—then hung my keys on my kitty key holder. Two steps and I rounded the corner into my living room and froze.

  A big white clothing box tied with a bright red bow sat on my coffee table. Shit. Answered my question about crosses. I went to the box and snagged the card taped on top.

  Sophie,

  These were meant to be worn by you. You’ll look lovely. Please come. We must speak. I’ll send a car at 7:30.

  OP

  Either Mr. Perrotte’s messenger didn’t give him the scoop on what’d ha
ppened at the paper today or the guy didn’t care. I untied the fat ribbon and lifted the lid. The dress was blood red, my size and stretchy. There was a pair of high-heeled pointy-toed shoes wrapped in tissue paper at one end and a black velvet box at the other. Jewelry. I tossed the dress-box lid and grabbed the velvet box.

  A silver chain with a floating heart and a huge teardrop diamond suspended in the center, the necklace was beautiful and exactly my style. Maybe I should talk with this Octavius Perrotte. He certainly knew how to speak girl. Besides, how could I call myself an unbiased reporter if I based my story on only one source? A source, I might add, who by all evidence was the guilty party.

  The dress clung to every curve of my body and no matter how much I tugged and pulled I couldn’t make it any bigger. The bottom hem hit mid-thigh, the back scooped to an inch or so above my butt and the front showed more cleavage than my halter top had. If I sneezed too hard something was coming out at one end or the other.

  At seven thirty I glanced at the clock on the DVD player. I’d just finished getting ready but I wasn’t worried about the time. Something just made me look. Weird. I thought about that for a minute. Was it coincidence or something more? And then I noticed it, that gentle pressure hugging around my head, the soft buzzing in my ears.

  “Your car awaits.” The words weren’t really words, but an understanding, a feeling like warm silk brushing through my mind. I went to the window and gazed down at the street in front of my apartment building where a black limousine sat double-parked. A chill shook across my shoulders. Was this a mistake? I knew vampires were harder to suggest than humans, but I was still able to wield some power over them. The biker-dude messenger had said Octavius Perrotte didn’t mean me any harm but did vampires and humans define “harm” the same way?

  “Suck it up. Gotta take some risks if you want the story.” I grabbed my cell phone and dialed my mom. I had to tell someone where I was going just in case I didn’t come back. And my mom would kill anyone who dared touch a hair on my head…even if she thought they were already dead.

  Twenty minutes later, after I finished explaining why I hadn’t called in the last two weeks, I hung up with Mom and walked down the steps and out the front doors of my apartment building. The limo driver was out and around to open my door before I reached the car. I peeked in and saw the car was empty. I’d half expected to see Octavius waiting for me inside. And as the driver clicked the door closed behind me, I realized the vampire must’ve whispered into my head from across the city. My gut twisted, and a fine sheen of sweat chilled across my back. How powerful was this guy?

  We arrived on Mount Washington less than a half hour later, the limo idling while I stared through the tinted windows at Sinners restaurant. The entrance side of the building was unremarkable, ivy-covered brick walls, oak doors, arched awning over the entry. There was a valet in a black bolero jacket and bowtie, and a doorman in tails and white gloves. My limo driver stood outside my door, his hands folded one over the other.

  I reached for the handle and the driver jerked into action, opening my door, offering a hand. Three steps and the doorman swung open the big oak door and I stepped inside where the view was decidedly better. Built on the side of Mount Washington, Sinners overlooks downtown Pittsburgh and Point State Park where two rivers converge to make a third.

  The cityscape stretched out before the diners as they entered, viewed through a floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window. I couldn’t imagine anyone passing through the entrance for the first time and not gasping at the sight before them.

  It’s an impressive view from just about anywhere on Mount Washington. But in the early evening with candles flickering on white linen tabletops and honey lights turned low, and delicious scents wafting from the kitchen, the view took on a kind of magical elegance that made my belly flutter with excitement.

  “Miss Merlo?” The maitre d’, dressed in a full tux and tails with white tie and cummerbund, gestured down a small flight of steps from the entrance landing. He led the way to the lower portion of the restaurant.

  I followed as we zigzagged around tables of fancily dressed couples and groups quietly enjoying their sparse but expensive meals. I always figured I could tell how expensive a place is by how big a deal they make out of the itty-bitty portions. He led me to one of the tables lining the window wall. All the window tables were set for two. The bigger the tables, the farther back from the window they sat. The maitre d’ pulled out my chair and I sat, glancing around the restaurant, noticing the balcony level toward the back above the entrance.

  The view would be higher from up there, but not as close to the fantastic window wall. I wondered which were the better tables. Those in the loft’s more intimate setting or down here on the main floor right next to the window. The design was such that when I leaned my forehead against the glass, I could see the rocky mountainside all the way to the river. Couldn’t get that from the loft.

  The maitre d’ bowed. “Mr. Perrotte will be with you shortly.” I smiled, nodded, and he turned on his heel, heading back to his post at the door.

  I’m not the sort who can’t sit alone at a restaurant or go to a movie by myself, but sitting there at the center of the huge window wall, I couldn’t help feeling as though I’d been lit by a spotlight. Sideways glances, whispered conversations and not-so-subtle points made me feel as though everyone at Sinners restaurant knew I’d been summoned here tonight. Like they knew there was more behind the invitation Mr. Perrotte had sent than the cocktails and fine dining it offered.

  Or maybe I was just being paranoid. But instinct tickled across my shoulders, fight or flight urges tingling through my thighs. This was a mistake.

  “Sophie.” I flinched when I heard the soft baritone voice behind my shoulder. “You’re not at all what I expected. I’m Octavius Perrotte. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He wasn’t what I had expected either, though I’m not sure what exactly I had expected. But a twenty-something dark-haired hottie was not it. He was short for a man, maybe five-five, five-six, and stocky like a wrestler. His tan suit fit loosely, as was the style, the jacket buttoning low near his navel. His shirt was the kind that didn’t need a tie, but instead had a stiff banded collar for a clean, finished look.

  I shook the hand he offered and noted how small and frail mine looked engulfed by his. He smiled, and the sentiment lit his blue eyes. The color was startling, so much so it was hard not to stare, the brilliant blue made more intense set against the frame of his jet black hair. He wore his hair trimmed short, longer on top, brushed back from his forehead so the shorter strands spiked, giving him a young-businessman look.

  Our waiter pulled out his chair and Octavius sat, his gaze never leaving me. “Forgive my staring but your hair is so short. I assumed Alexander was too old-world to be attracted to such a modern hairstyle on a woman. In our day, there were few reasons a woman would cut her hair and none of them good.”

  My hand went to finger the fringes of my hair along my neck. “It’s easy to take care of.”

  He shook his head, brows creasing. “No. Of course. I’m sorry. You’re lovely. Really. You’re hair is perfect. I’m just surprised. It seems my old friend has changed more over the years than I realized.”

  The waiter held a menu out to me. I glanced at the single stiff sheet and noticed a small tattoo on the man’s inner wrist when his sleeve hiked up—an “X” like the Roman numeral ten.

  “Thank you.” I took the menu. The writing was the same fancy scroll as on the invitation and artfully covered both sides.

  “May I take your drink orders while you decide?” the waiter said.

  I glanced at Octavius and then to the waiter. “I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.”

  “Priceless.” Octavius’ smile broadened. He spoke to the waiter though his gaze stayed fixed on me. “Fetch a bottle from my private cellar, Tony. One of the Romanée-Contis. Thank you.”

  A quick bow and Tony scampered off…to fetch.

&n
bsp; “How did you even know that I knew Alex?” I asked. “I mean, I only met him last night.”

  “An employee of mine. He was…running an errand, and he mentioned seeing you. Said you had Alexander’s rapt attention. I must admit,” he said eyeing me as though he could see more than what my skimpy dress revealed, “I can understand why.”

  “Oh. Right.” Awkward. “So…Romanée-Conti, is that good?” Smooth topic switch.

  “It’s French.”

  “Ah.” I nodded like that meant something. What’d I know? Most of the wine I buy comes with screw-on lids or in a convenient party-size box dispenser.

  Octavius leaned back in his chair, one hand fiddling with the tail of his folded swan napkin on the table. “Tell me about Alexander. How is he? Business good? What’s his place called…Il Piccolo Morso, isn’t that it?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.” But a strange tingle rippled through my belly as though I was betraying some confidence.

  “The Small Bite.” He laughed to himself. “Moderation. Ironic coming from our dear Alexander.”

  “I’m sorry, but why’d you invite me here?” My spidey-reporter sense was off the charts telling me this meeting had little to do with me. I was being played. “What was so urgent we had to talk tonight?”

  “Do you love him?”

  My brain went off-line for about two seconds. I couldn’t fathom the question. “What?”

  Octavius suddenly lurched forward, forearms on the table. I squeaked and flinched at the same time. “He’s fed on you. I can smell him on your breath. Do you know what that means to a man like Alexander, a man of…moderation?”

  “I barely know him.” I tried to scoot back in my chair but he grabbed my wrists, held me so we were both leaning toward each other across the table.