by Adrian, Lara
“Mm-hmm. Or something,” Savannah drawled through her smile, shaking her head as Rachel waggled her brows then sauntered toward the professor’s office. Having come to Boston University on a full academic scholarship and the highest SAT scores across twenty-two parishes in south central Louisiana, Savannah didn’t really need help bolstering her grades. She’d accepted the extra credit assignment only out of her insatiable love for history and learning.
She looked at the urn again, then retrieved another catalogue of London silver from the Colonial period and compared the piece to the ones documented on the pages. Doubting her initial analysis now, she picked up her pencil and erased what she’d first written in her notebook. The urn wasn’t English in origin. American, she corrected. Likely crafted in New York or Philadelphia, if she were forced to guess. Or did the simplicity of the Rococo design lean more toward the work of a Boston artisan?
Savannah huffed out a sigh, frustrated by how tedious and inexact the work was proving to be. There was a better way, after all.
She knew of a far more efficient, accurate way to resolve the origins--all the hidden secrets--of these old treasures. But she couldn’t very well start fondling everything with her bare hands. Not with Professor Keaton in his office a few feet away. Not with her other two classmates gathered at the table with her, working on their own items from the collection. She wouldn’t dare use the peculiar skill she’d been born with.
No, she left that part of her back home in Acadiana. She wasn’t about to let anyone up here in Boston think of her as some voodoo freak show. She was different enough among the predominantly white student body. She didn’t want anyone knowing how truly strange she was. Aside from her only living kin--her older sister, Amelie--no one knew about Savannah’s extrasensory gift, and that’s how she intended to keep it.
Much as she loved Amelie, Savannah had been happy to leave the bayou behind and try to make her own path in life. A normal life. One that wasn’t rooted in the swamps with a Cajun mother who’d been more than a shade eccentric, for all Savannah could recall of her, and a father who’d been a drifter, absent for all of his daughter’s life, little better than a rumor, according to Amelie.
If not for Amelie, who’d practically raised her, Savannah would have belonged to no one. She still felt somehow out of place in the world, lost and searching, apart from everyone else around her. For as long as she could remember, she’d felt...different.
Which was probably why she was striving so hard to make her life normal.
She’d hoped moving away to attend college right out of high school would give her some sense of purpose. A feeling of belonging and direction. She’d taken the maximum load of classes and filled her evenings and weekends with a part-time job at the Boston Public Library.
Oh, shit.
A job she was going to be late for, she realized, glancing up at the clock on the wall. She was due for her 4PM shift at the library in twenty minutes--barely enough time to wrap up now and hurry her butt across town.
Savannah closed her notebook and hastily straightened up her work area at the table. Picking up the urn in her gloved hands, she carried the piece back into the archive storage room where the rest of the donated collection’s catalogued furniture and art objects had been placed.
As she set the silver vessel on the shelf and put away her gloves, something caught her eye in a dim corner of the room. A long, slender case of some sort stood propped against the wall, partially concealed behind a rolled-up antique rug.
Had she and the other students missed an item?
She strode over to get a better look. Behind the bound rug was an old wooden case. About five feet in length, the container was unremarkable except for the fact that it seemed deliberately separated--hidden--from the rest of the things in the room.
What was it?
Savannah moved aside the heavy, rolled rug, struggling with its unwieldy bulk. As she leaned the rug against the perpendicular wall, she bumped the wooden case. It tipped forward suddenly, about to crash to the floor.
Panicked, Savannah lunged, shooting her arms out and using her entire body to break the case’s fall. As she caught it, taking the piece down with her onto her knees, the old leather hinges holding it together snapped apart with a soft pop-pop-pop.
A length of cold, smooth steel tumbled out of the case and into Savannah’s open hands.
Her bare hands.
The metal was a jolting chill against her palms. Heavy. Sharp-edged. Lethal.
Startled, Savannah sucked in a breath, but couldn’t move fast enough to avoid the prolonged contact or the power of her gift, which stirred to life inside her.
The sword’s history opened up to her, like a window into the past. A random moment, fused forever into the metal and now exploding in vivid, if scattered, detail in Savannah’s mind.
She saw a man holding the weapon before him as in combat.
Tall and menacing, a mane of thick blond waves danced wildly around his head as he stared down an unseen opponent under a black-velvet, moonlit sky. His stance was unforgiving, the air about him as grim as death itself. Piercing blue eyes cut through the tendrils of sweat-dampened hair that drooped into the ruthless angles of his face and square-cut jaw.
The man was immense, thick roped muscles bulging from broad shoulders and biceps beneath the loose drape of his ecru linen shirt. Smooth, fawn-colored trousers clung to his powerful thighs as he advanced on his quarry, blade poised to kill. Whoever the man was who’d once wielded this deadly weapon, he was not some post-Elizabethan dandy, but a warrior.
Bold.
Arrogant.
Magnetic. Dangerously so.
The swordsman closed in on his target, no mercy whatsoever in the hard line of his mouth, nor in the blazing blue eyes that narrowed with unswerving intent, seeming almost to glow with some inner fury that Savannah couldn’t comprehend. A dark curiosity prickled inside her, against her better instincts.
Who was this man?
Where was he from? How had he lived?
How many centuries ago must he have died?
Through the lens of her mind’s eye, Savannah watched the warrior come to a halt. He stared down at the one he now met in mortal combat. His broad mouth was flat, merciless. He raised his sword arm, prepared to strike.
And then he did, driving home the blade in a swift, certain death blow.
Savannah’s heart raced, pounding frantically in her breast. She could hardly breathe for the combination of fear and fascination swirling inside her.
She tried to see the swordsman’s face in better detail, but his wild tangle of golden hair and the shadows of the night that surrounded him hid all but the most basic hints of his features.
And now, as so often happened with her gift, the vision was beginning to fracture apart. The image started to splinter, breaking into scattered shards.
She’d never been able to control her ability, not even when she tried. It was a powerful gift, but an elusive one too. Now was no different. Savannah struggled to hold on, but the glimpse the sword gave her was slipping...fading...drifting out of reach.
As Savannah’s mind cleared, she uncurled her fingers from their grip on the blade. She stared down at the length of polished steel resting across her open palms.
She closed her eyes and tried to conjure the face of the swordsman from memory, but only the faintest impression of him remained within her grasp. Soon, even that was slipping away. Then it was gone.
He was gone.
Banished back to the past, where he belonged.
And yet, a single, nagging question pulsed through her mind, through her veins. It demanded an answer, one she had little hope of resolving.
Who was he?
CHAPTER 2
Broken glass and debris from the rotting rafters rained down in the dark as three members of the Order patrol team dropped through a filth-clouded skylight of the abandoned clothing factory in Chinatown. The surprise attack from above sent the group
of feral-eyed, blood-addicted squatters in the old ruin of the building scrambling for cover.
For all the good it would do them to run.
Gideon and his two comrades had been tailing one member of this Rogue nest most of the night, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Waiting for the suckhead to lead them to his lair, where the Order could take out not just one Bloodlust-crazed predator, but several. Half a dozen, by Gideon’s quick count, as he, Dante and Conlan dropped in unannounced just after midnight.
Gideon was on one of the Rogues as soon as his boots hit the rubbish-strewn floor. He leapt after the suckhead, grabbing a fistful of the vampire’s dirty trench coat as it flew out behind him like a sail. He took the Rogue down in a hard tackle, pinning it with his forearm braced against the back of the rabid male’s neck. With his free hand, Gideon reached for the shorter of the two blades he wore in combat. The twelve-inch length of razor-sharp, titanium-edged steel gleamed in the scant moonlight shining in from the open roof overhead.
The Rogue began to fight and flail, snarling through its fangs as it struggled to get loose. Gideon didn’t give the suckhead a chance to so much as hope it might escape him.
Shifting his hold, Gideon clutched a hank of the Rogue’s unkempt brown hair and wrenched its head back. The vampire’s amber eyes glowed wild and unfocused, its open maw dripping sticky saliva as it growled and hissed in the mindless fury of its Bloodlust.
Gideon plunged his dagger into the hollow at the base of the Rogue’s exposed throat.
Death from the blade might have been certain enough, but the titanium--fast-acting poison to the diseased blood system of a Rogue--sealed the deal. The vampire’s body convulsed as the titanium entered its bloodstream, began devouring its cells from the inside out. It wouldn’t take long--mere seconds before there was nothing left but bubbling ooze, then dried-up ash. Then nothing left at all.
As the titanium did its worst on Gideon’s kill, he wheeled around to gauge the situation with his comrades. Conlan was in pursuit of a suckhead who’d fled for a steel catwalk above the factory floor. The big Scot warrior dropped the Rogue with a titanium dagger shot from his hand like a bullet.
A few yards away, Dante was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a Rogue who’d had the bad sense to think he could fight the dark-haired warrior up close and personal. Dante calmly, but swiftly, eluded every careless strike before drawing a pair of savage, curved blades from their sheaths on his hips and slicing them across the attacking Rogue’s chest. The suckhead howled in sudden agony, collapsing in a boneless heap at the warrior’s feet.
“Three down,” Con called out in his thick brogue. “Another three to go.”
Gideon nodded to his teammates. “Two heading for the back loading dock now. Don’t let the bastards get away.”
Conlan and Dante took off on his direction without question or hesitation. They’d run Rogue-hunting missions under Gideon’s command for years, long enough to know that they could rely on his direction even in the thickest of urban combat.
Gideon sheathed his short blade in favor of his sword, the weapon he’d mastered back in London, before his travels--and his vow--brought him to Boston to seek out Lucan Thorne and pledge his arm to the Order.
Gideon swiveled his head, making a swift, sweeping search of the shadows and gloom of the old building. He saw the fourth Rogue in no time. It was fleeing toward the west side of the place, pausing here and there, ostensibly seeking a place to hide.
Gideon focused on his quarry, seeing it with something more than just his eyes. He’d been born with a much stronger gift of sight: The preternatural ability to see living energy sources through solid mass.
For most of his long existence--three-and-a-half centuries and counting--his gift had been little more than a clever trick. A useless parlor game, something he’d valued far less than his skill with a sword. Since joining the Order, he’d honed his extrasensory talent into a weapon. One that had given him new purpose in life.
His sole purpose.
He used that ability now to guide him toward his current target. The Rogue he chased must have decided better of its notion to look for cover. No longer wasting precious seconds out of motion, the feral vampire veered sharply south in the building.
Through the brick and wood and steel of the sheltering walls, Gideon watched the fiery orb of the Rogue’s energy shift direction, pushing deeper into the bowels of the run-down factory. Gideon trailed its flight on silent, stealthy feet. Past a chaos of tumbled sewing stations and toppled bolts of faded, rodent-infested fabric. Around a corner into a long, debris-scattered hallway.
Empty storage rooms and dank, dark offices lined the corridor. Gideon’s target had fled into the passageway before making a hasty, fatal mistake. The Rogue’s energy orb hovered behind a closed door at the end of the hallway--just a few scant feet from a window that would have dumped him onto the street outside. If Bloodlust hadn’t robbed the vampire of his wits, he might have eluded death tonight.
But death had found him.
Gideon approached without making a sound. He paused just outside the door, turned to face it. Then kicked the panel off its hinges with one brutal stamp of his booted foot.
The impact knocked the Rogue backward, onto its back on the littered office floor. Gideon pounced, one foot planted in the center of the feral vampire’s chest, the blade of his sword resting under its chin.
“M-mercy,” the beast growled, less voice than animalistic grunt. Mercy was a word that had no meaning to one of the Breed lost to Bloodlust as deeply as this creature was. Gideon had seen that firsthand. The Rogue’s breath was sour, reeking of disease and the over-consumption of human blood that was its addiction. Thick spittle bubbled in its throat as the vampire’s lips peeled back from enormous, yellowed fangs. “Let me...go. Have...mercy...”
Gideon stared unflinching into the feral amber eyes. He saw only savagery there. He saw blood and smoke and smoldering ruin. He saw death so horrific, it haunted him even now.
“Mercy,” the Rogue hissed, even while fury crackled in its wild gaze.
Gideon didn’t acknowledge the plea. With a flex of his shoulder, he thrust the sword deep, severing throat and spinal column in one thorough strike.
A quick, painless execution.
That was the limit of his mercy tonight.
CHAPTER 3
Savannah arrived early at the Art History department that next afternoon. She couldn’t wait for her day’s final class to let out, and made a beeline across campus as soon as English Lit 101 ended. She dashed up the three flights of stairs to the archive room outside Professor Keaton’s office, excited to see she was the first student to report in for the after-class project. Dumping her book bag next to her work table, she slipped into the storage room containing the items yet to be catalogued for the university’s collection.
The sword was right where she’d left it the day before, carefully returned to its wooden case in the corner of the room.
Savannah’s pulse kicked as she entered and softly closed the door behind her. The beautiful old blade--and the mysterious, golden-haired warrior who’d once used it with lethal skill--had been haunting her thoughts all this time. She wanted to know more. Needed to know more, with a compulsion too strong to resist.
She tried to ignore the little pang of guilt that stabbed her as she bypassed the bin of clean curator’s gloves and sank down, bare-handed, in front of the container that held the sword.
She lifted the lid of the long box, gently laying it open. The length of polished steel gleamed. Savannah hadn’t had the chance to really look at its craftsmanship yesterday, after it had fallen so unexpectedly into her hands.
She hadn’t noticed then how the tooled steel grip was engraved with the image of a bird of prey swooping in for a brutal attack, its cruel beak open in a scream. Nor had she paid attention to the blade’s gemstone pommel, a blood-red ruby caged by grotesque metal talons. A cold shiver ran up her arms as she studied the weapon n
ow.
This was no hero’s sword.
And still, she couldn’t resist the need to know more about the man she’d watched wield it in her glimpse from before.
Savannah flexed her fingers, then gently rested them on the blade.
The vision leapt into her mind even faster than the first time.
Except this was a different peek at the weapon’s past. Something unexpected, but equally intriguing in a different way.
A pair of young boys--tow-headed, identical twins--played with the sword in a torchlit stable. They could be no more than ten years old, both dressed like little seventeenth-century lords in white linen shirts, riding boots and dark blue breeches that gathered at the knee. They were laughing, taking turns with the sword, stabbing and lunging at a bale of straw, pretending to slay imaginary beasts.
Until something outside the stable startled them.
Fear filled their young faces. Their eyes went to each other, dread-filled, panicked. One of them opened his mouth in a silent scream--just as the torch on the wall of the stable went out.
Savannah recoiled from the blade. She let go of it, shaking, gripped with a marrow-deep terror for these two children. What happened to them?
She couldn’t walk away. Not now.
Not until she knew.
Her fingers trembled as she brought them back over the blade again. She set her hands down on the cold steel, and waited. Though not for long.
The window to the past opened up to her like a dragon’s maw, dark and jagged, an abyss licked with fire.
The stable was ablaze. Flames climbed the stalls and rafters, devouring everything in their path. Blood bathed the rough timber posts and the bale of yellow straw. So much blood. It was everywhere.
And the boys...
The pair of them lay unmoving on the floor of the stable. Their bodies were savaged, broken. Barely recognizable as the beautiful children who’d seemed so joyous and carefree. So alive.
