by Brooklyn Ann
Akasha struggled to keep her eyes in her head at the mind-blowing luxury surrounding her. “Obviously lucrative.”
He blinked in surprise at her reply, obviously not expecting her to be literate. “I hope you’ll be pleased with the room.”
The room was huge. Her feet sank into the royal blue carpet. A queen sized four-poster bed dominated the area. On the other side of the room was a vanity of deep dark wood and a matching dresser. A sliding glass door opened to a balcony.
“I left the walls bare so you can decorate. There’s a robe and slippers in the closet.” He pointed to one of the three doors. “The bathroom is there.”
Akasha’s mind swam. Her own closet? Her own bathroom? A pair of slippers?
McNaught inclined his head respectfully. “I’ll leave you alone now. Goodnight, Akasha.”
“Good night Mr. McNaught,” she replied, unnerved by his formality.
“Please, call me Silas.” Warmth tinged his voice before he closed the door behind him.
The moment he left, Akasha fled to the bathroom and locked the door as she changed into an oversized t-shirt. But once she was snuggled under the covers of the heavenly soft bed, sleep was impossible.
This guy is way too nice. Silas McNaught was so polite it made her teeth hurt. Yet he was the first person to believe that she was nineteen. Should she have lied? Now he knew she was legal.
She watched the sliver of light under the door and clutched her knife, waiting for him to come into “her” room and do something terrible, something to disprove his kindness. She waited and waited until her eyelids drooped and she succumbed to the bed’s luxurious comfort.
Chapter Two
Her boots were tiny. The Lord Vampire of Coeur d’Alene stared at the worn things, marveling at how light they felt in his hand. He set them down and lifted her leather jacket from the floor, inhaling the myriad scents of it. Leather, motor oil, tobacco …and woman. He hung the garment up— careful not to rattle the many zippers— and approached the bed.
Silas stood over Akasha, fists clenched at his sides, resisting the urge to touch her. Had he made a mistake in bringing her here? Instead of embracing him with teary gratitude, she radiated fury at his rescue. Had my visions been wrong?
In his mortal days people had called Silas McNaught “the mad laird” because he sometimes fell into trances and awoke being able to foretell the future. After five centuries, McNaught paid little heed to his prophetic visions, except for one in which he held a beautiful lass with amethyst eyes and raven curls as she cried. Silas believed this woman was to be his bride. He finally found her last month. To his surprise, she’d been under his nose for three years.
Yet one look into those cold purple eyes and he was almost certain no tears had ever been shed from them.
Still, he hadn’t realized how irresistible she was. Akasha looked innocent and vulnerable as an angel as she curled up in a ball, one fist resting against a round cheek. Her other hand clutched the knife she’d threatened to stab him with. An admiring smile tugged at his lips. An avenging angel, perhaps. Dusky curls reflected the moonlight and her bowed lips pouted. He leaned down to kiss them… then stopped. That would be wrong. He would have her willing or not at all. Instead, he began the next step of securing her.
Silas locked on Akasha’s mind, willing her to stay asleep. Pain burst in his skull as her mind fought his. Doubling his effort he increased his psychic grip. If he didn’t move fast, he would lose her.
Quickly, he bit down on his finger, drawing blood.
With his other hand, he coaxed her lips open to let the blood drip in her mouth and whispered, “I, Silas McNaught, Lord of Coeur d’Alene, Mark this mortal, Akasha Hope, as mine and mine alone. With this Mark I give Akasha my undying protection. Let all others, immortal and mortal alike, who cross her path sense my Mark and know that to act against her is to act against myself and thus set forth my wrath as I will avenge what is mine.”
He repeated the ancient oath in his Gaelic tongue and reached out with his senses. The Mark flared between them, warmth rushing up his body. At last, she was his. Satisfied with the night’s work, he placed a kiss on her forehead and slipped out of the room.
Suddenly, thunder sounded, powerful and ominous enough to make his bones ache. His skin electrified with tension, Silas strode down the stairs to glance out the window at the calm sky and October harvest moon.
As he dreaded, the thunder came from within. He massaged his temples to ease the violent reverberations in his skull. Something was coming…something ancient and bloated with enough power to shake the earth.
He took his sword down from the wall as the front door opened of its own volition and a tall cloaked figure strolled in. The very air shivered from its presence.
“You will not need that.” A low voice came from the black velvet folds of the cloak.
Silas fell to his knees, eyes wide with recognition, though his grip remained firm upon the steel hilt of his weapon. “Greetings, my Lord Delgarias. You honor me with your presence.”
The Thirteenth Elder, rumored to be the oldest of their kind, nodded and bade Silas to rise. “I have come to discuss this mortal you Marked.”
Silas blinked. A Lord Vampire didn’t need permission to Mark a mortal, he only needed the Elders’ approval if he intended to Change him or her. Delgarias’s visit couldn’t bode well. If he intended to harm Akasha— He bit back a growl at the thought.
Quelling his trepidation, Silas returned his sword to its honored place above the marble hearth. “Very well, please have a seat.” He stepped aside to allow Delgarias to take his favorite burgundy recliner— and to further block the way to the stairs. “Would you care for some wine, or perhaps a shot of Glenlivet?”
The Elder moved the latest issue of The Wall Street Journal to the coffee table and nodded. “You always have the best scotch. But first, tell me, McNaught,” his voice low and silken as he leaned forward, blue eyes glowing like lightning. “If I had attacked, would you have fought me?”
“Yes.” Silas’s reply was instant. Perhaps he should have kept his weapon.
“You would have died.”
Silas nodded, wondering where this was going. “I must defend my lands and people, even if I die doing so. That is my first obligation as a Lord.” His eyes narrowed. “Or have you forgotten that in your frequent periods of absence?”
Delgarias chuckled but there was an edge of steel beneath. “Careful, McNaught, not to try my temper. I have not forgotten, but I believe others of your rank have. It is good you remember. Good that I was not a fool to have chosen you—” He shook his head as if to clear it. “About that drink?”
Silas headed to the bar as the other vampire’s power prickled his skin. He regarded Delgarias as he poured the drinks. He’d only been in the Elder’s presence once, back in 1926 when he became the Lord of Coeur d’Alene, at the Elder’s enigmatic suggestion…or command. No one knew how old Delgarias was, or where he came from. The vampire was like a phantom, appearing out of nowhere to settle a dispute or issue the occasional command.
Delgarias pulled back the hood of his cloak and Silas, as usual, tensed at the vampire’s odd appearance. His skin seemed poreless in its luminosity. The Elder’s long hair was made of translucent strands with black cores, like shafts of feathers. The waist-length mass hid his pointed ears tonight, but Silas had seen them before. And his fingers were an inch longer than normal. Sometimes he suspected Delgarias had never been human.
He handed the Elder his drink, watching those long fingers curl around the glass with morbid fascination. Silas took a sip of scotch, rolling the fiery liquid across his tongue before allowing it to trace a hot path down his throat.
Delgarias didn’t bother with such care. He quaffed half his drink in one swallow as if he were a mortal man. Unlike other vampires, food and drink didn’t seem to affect his digestion. He set down the empty glass and rested his hands in a steeple beneath his chin.
“The circumstances w
ith this mortal are quite unique,” Delgarias interrupted Silas’s thoughts. “She was in the state’s custody.”
“But she’s not a minor. The state merely thinks she is,” McNaught replied, fixing him with a rigid stare. “I know our rules and I handled the mortal laws through the proper channels.”
Delgarias leaned back in his chair and regarded Silas intently. “Did you ever stop to wonder what put this woman in such a strange situation? Why would the authorities make her younger than she truly is? It seems a waste of time and money to me.”
McNaught sighed in disinterest. “Perhaps she will tell me.”
The Elder’s lips twitched. “And perhaps she will not.”
Silas shrugged. He didn’t care too much about the woman’s mysterious background or lack of it. What mattered was that his centuries of searching for her had at last come to an end. “Why are you concerned with the matter?” he prodded.
“As I said before, the circumstances are unique.” Something in his tone implied that he wasn’t talking about Akasha’s being a former ward of the state. “If you want to keep this woman, you must obey two commands. First, you must not Change this woman until I, and no one else, give you permission.”
Silas nodded. “I can live with that...as long as you don’t make me wait for too many years.” It was strange that Delgarias was taking such a personal interest in such an insignificant affair. “What else?”
“I want you to guard her friends,” Delgarias said. “But under no circumstances are they to learn what you are.”
“Her friends?” Silas frowned, recalling the nights he watched Akasha sneak out the window of the group home to join a car full of black garbed teenagers. He was alternately amused and annoyed with the so-called “Goth” trend. It didn’t occur to him that he would have such persons under his roof.
“What am I to be guarding them from?”
Delgarias leaned forward. “There are those of our kind who will find them to be quite… interesting; one young lady in particular.” He fell silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Her mother recently passed away, so she may need extra supervision and, at the least, a little more patience.” There was something off in his tone.
“What of her?”
“She is the daughter of Mephistopheles,” The Thirteenth elder said calmly.
Silas winced as the glass shattered in his grip. Oblivious to the blood and liquor dripping on the plush carpet, his voice dropped to a whisper. “The old legends are true then?”
It was long whispered that vampires had been created by a dark god of another world and then banished to the earth realm for displeasing him. Could such a phenomenon be real?
Pain contorted Delgarias’s smooth features before they settled back into complacent lines and he nodded. “Mephistopheles himself made me what I am.”
“What is he? When were you…created?” Silas whispered, reeling in shock. “And what has this to do with the woman I Marked?” He knew it was unwise to question the Thirteenth Elder, but his mind spun with the news.
“I do not feel the time is right to address your first questions. As for the last, your pet mortal might have very little to do with Mephistopheles,” the vampire said noncommittally. “Or perhaps much. I only ask that you guard her and the others and keep them out of trouble.”
“So I am to be a nursemaid, then?” Silas asked, his Scottish brogue creeping into his voice in irritation, as he plucked shards of broken glass from his hand.
To his vexation, the other vampire laughed. “You may call it what you wish, just see that you do it.” His voice took on a steely edge. “Unless you wish to relinquish Akasha to me? After all, I can find some other vampire up to the tasks I require.”
“No!” Silas flashed across the room and seized his sword, every cell of his being roaring to protect Akasha.
Delgarias raised a brow at his impetuous move. “I should chastise you for that. But now all I ask is that you do as I asked.”
“I will, I swear it on my honor.” He lowered the blade.
The Elder bit his finger and placed the bleeding tip to Silas’s wounds, healing them instantly. “I must be going now. Thank you very much for the drink. I wish you luck with your mortal woman.”
“Wait!” Silas said. “How did the daughter of Mephistopheles get here? And what does it mean for our kind?” He stopped, eyes widening as he faced the Delgarias, realization sparking his senses. “You knew Mephistopheles’s child would be here. That’s why you encouraged me to take this city.”
The Elder had a way of knowing what was to come with frightening accuracy.
Delgarias’s face was impassive. “There will be time enough to discuss that later. Just watch over Akasha and her friends and keep out of trouble. That is my command.”
With those parting words, he vanished from the spot.
Silas sighed. Why did the Elders have to be so infuriatingly vague? He bent down and began to clean up the broken glass.
At least Akasha was safe. And how hard could supervising a few teenagers be? He frowned and put the shards in an ashtray. One of them was the daughter of the creator of vampires and the circumstances of her presence were baffling enough to give him a headache. But he supposed he would have to deal with it. God willing, his experience as Laird of his clan and later as Lord Vampire of a city made him up to the task.
Chapter Three
Phoenix, Arizona
Major Frances Milbury of the Covert Operations Assassinations Team— COAT for short— clenched the arms of his chair so tightly that the stumps of the severed fingers on his left hand were as white as the intact knuckles on his right.
He spoke slowly to keep from screaming at his former university rival. “You mean to tell me you’ve been sitting on this for three years and it didn’t occur to you to notify me?”
FBI Agent Joe Holmes, head of the Abnormal Investigation Unit (AIU), reclined behind his desk, blue eyes twinkling at the man’s ire. “I didn’t have to. The body and evidence we found is so far outside COAT jurisdiction it’s laughable.”
Milbury sneered. “You don’t have the ‘jurisdiction,’ nor the security clearance to decide what is and isn’t a concern to our department.”
Holmes grinned with his usual obnoxious cheer. “Come now, I’m doing you a favor in revealing our findings. A little gratitude should be forthcoming.”
“The lateness of this ‘favor’ could have compromised my investigation!” Milbury slammed his good fist on the desk. “Who knows what crucial evidence was lost?”
Holmes sighed and ran a hand through his unruly white hair. “I say again, the victim was a civilian. He was, in fact, a serial killer the FBI had been trying to catch for years. More than that, he was beaten to death by a creature with supernatural strength, which is why my department was called rather than yours. What connection to the military could be seen in this?”
Milbury rolled his eyes. “So you thought one of your ‘monsters’ killed him.”
The AIU investigated crimes committed by what they believed to be supernatural beings such as witches, vampires, and God knew what else. Milbury saw it as a waste of taxpayer dollars.
Holmes gave him another superior smile. “Yes, we did. But the DNA didn’t match a vampire’s. Too many red cells and too…engineered, for lack of a better word. Which brings me to a question: What has your department been cooking up that has you looking for a nineteen year old female with no military association? And why are you so interested in the remains we’re storing?”
Milbury’s temper receded as triumph and anticipation seeped in. “Was the DNA found on the victim female?”
“It was,” the scientist admitted in a cautious tone.
Francis smiled tightly. “I could tell you the information’s classified, but I’ll humor you and ask, why did you call to inform me of this victim when I sent out memos describing the girl? The remains are of an older male, correct?”
Holmes chuckled and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses.
“You’re lucky I even read your note. Runaways aren’t our specialty. However, the COAT letterhead piqued my curiosity. All that aside, let’s say I found a possible connection.”
“I want everything you have released to me immediately,” Milbury demanded.
Holmes shook his head. “Not so fast. It’s still my property. I can, however, give you full access to my lab and all files and evidence pertaining to this case… if I feel like it.”
Milbury wanted to knock him in the teeth. “What do you want, Joe?”
“I want in on this.” All of Holmes’s usual cheer was abandoned, giving way to implacable determination.
“You want in how?” Francis knew, but had to ask. He couldn’t afford misunderstandings.
“I want to perform the research and testing on this woman. I want to know how this mutation works.” Holmes’s gaze filled with scientific zeal.
Milbury’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think I’d be authorized to let the Feds in on this?”
Joe smirked. “Because you came. Not a scientist or even a doctor. I’m willing to bet you don’t have either on your staff. In fact, I’m not so certain your superiors even know we’re having this conversation.”
Francis sighed in effort to hide his prickle of unease. Damn the rat bastard, he was right. Milbury’s department was a cleanup crew for “loose ends.” All Francis had were paper pushers and assassins— and since the budget cuts, very few of those.
Holmes had him by the balls and he knew it. Somehow, the slimy Fed had done his homework and knew how low the COAT had sunk in this last decade. Still, Holmes didn’t know everything.
Like what happened to the scientists who’d engineered the serum with which the girl’s father had been injected.
“The technology in my lab is superior to all others,” Holmes insisted. “And as for finding the girl, I have connections you don’t. Civilian connections.”
Milbury pretended to agonize before snarling, “All right! But we must involve as few people as possible. Now show me what you’ve got.”
