Although there were three other muses officially in contention for the honor, realistically Cerise was the only one who could possibly edge out Alissa. As if on cue, the Act I waltz from Swan Lake began, and Cerise’s friends encouraged her to dance. She declined at first, then relented. Cerise didn’t have the willowy body of a ballerina, but no one could deny that when Cerise danced, she was a wonder to behold. Alissa kept her face blank, though her throat burned as it always did when she watched Cerise perform. A dance recital had ruined their childhood friendship, and Alissa had tried unsuccessfully to mend things between them for years afterward.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she, Papa?” Dorie asked.
“She dances well.”
“Will the Etherlin Council take a muse’s personal talents into consideration when voting?” Dorie asked. “Cerise sent the songs I wrote to a music producer. She thinks I’m talented enough to sell or record them.”
“The EC is aware of everything a muse accomplishes, but it’s more concerned with how well she inspires other people. Using the muse magic for personal gain and attention is a good way to not only get yourself taken out of the running for the Wreath, but also to be asked to leave the community.”
“I didn’t use muse magic! I write music in my spare time.”
“You could be using that spare time to study and come up with ways to help foster innovations in the world. You should look to Alissa’s example. She just finished her second degree.”
Alissa hated being drawn into Dimitri’s lecture. She knew he was just trying to motivate Dorie, which, if rumor served, Dorie needed. But the younger girl would certainly resent being negatively compared to Alissa.
“I probably study too much. I often have to fight the urge to collaborate,” Alissa said.
“There’s nothing wrong with collaborating if it enhances the inspiration you provide your aspirants,” Dimitri said.
“Alissa, how’s your father?” Dorie asked. “I was walking along the lake, and I saw him messing around in the flower beds. It looked like he was in his pajamas and digging with his hands,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Alissa narrowed her eyes. “He’s doing well. He gardens sometimes to relax now that he’s writing again.”
“Writing? That’s good. Not with your help though, I trust,” Dimitri said.
“No. It’s just exploratory writing and historical research, but it’s keeping him occupied, and he’s enjoying the process again.”
“Took him long enough,” Dorie muttered.
“Is that what you think?” Alissa demanded.
How dare Dorie, a girl with limited drive, criticize a man who’d once worked fifteen-hour days to write novels that had won major literary awards, a man whose work had sparked a political debate that led to a congressional hearing and changes in foreign policy. What did Dorie, a pampered teen barely past puberty, know about real pain? When Alissa’s mother had died, her father had lost his love and his muse in a single night, a loss so devastating it had tipped him into despair and madness. Her father’s current state wasn’t his fault. No one had warned him about the dangerous side of muse magic until it was too late.
“Dorie, go and see if Mrs. Rella needs anything,” Dimitri said curtly.
“Sure,” Dorie said, unperturbed. Her dark eyes bore into Alissa as she passed.
“I’m sorry if that remark hurt you,” he said with his characteristic bluntness.
Alissa didn’t answer.
“Maybe Richard should stay with us. You know what fans Calla and I are of his novels. She’ll be home in a few days, and she’d love to assist in his research and encourage his return to writing, which would allow you to concentrate on your own work.”
“I have it all under control. It’s the anniversary of Mom’s death soon, and we always spend that together.” She was sure the impending anniversary had caused her dad’s setback, and Alissa wasn’t going to let anyone see him until it passed.
If she got the Wreath, she might even be able to restore him to his former self. She longed for that and didn’t feel guilty about using a little magic for his sake. The loss of muse magic was what had destroyed him in the first place, so he was owed some consideration. Also, it was the only thing Alissa took for herself. With the exception of the few hours per year that she spent writing letters to Merrick, her entire life was consumed with her role as a muse. Often from the time she woke until the time she went to bed, she followed an agenda that was created to serve her aspirants, the Etherlin community, and mankind at large. I’m allowed to take care of my own father, too, she thought defiantly.
“All right,” Dimitri said. “Let us know if you need help with anything.”
She smiled and squeezed his forearm. “Thank you, Dimitri.”
He nodded and excused himself. She relaxed her shoulders and slipped into the house through the French doors. Passing the lilac damask drapes framing the arched window, she maneuvered around the three-foot-tall flower arrangement sitting on a white-stone pedestal. She set her empty champagne flute on a sterling silver tray for soiled dishes, and then turned to the servant standing at the front door.
“If you have a moment, I’d like my wrap,” she said.
“Of course,” he said with a smile, then walked to the closet. A moment later, he held aloft the ivory shawl that was intricately embroidered with gold. She stepped forward and let him slip it around her shoulders.
“It’s quite a lovely piece,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, cursing the faint blush that rose in her cheeks. Another gift from Merrick that she shouldn’t have kept. She wondered what he was doing tonight. Probably something disreputable. Since he seemed to know her taste and always sent beautiful and thoughtful gifts, it was hard not to romanticize him. She had to remind herself that violence lurked under his charming generosity. “Thank you,” she said.
“Would you like the car called?”
“Oh no,” she said. “It’s a beautiful night. I’ll walk.”
“Very good, Miss North,” he said, opening the front door.
The clanging of the gate drew her gaze. A group that included Cerise and Dorie had come out of the yard, apparently going for a stroll. Alissa waited for them to pass before she left the house.
When she was beyond the edge of Xenakis property, she cut down one of the cobbled paths to the lakeside promenade. It was a shorter walk home, and a prettier one. The lake was like glass, moonlight reflecting off its placid surface. She paused to stare at the water. The Etherlin was the most beautiful place on Earth. They were lucky to have built their community in such a stunning place.
A shadow crept over the water. She looked up at the huge full moon. No clouds had drifted across it.
Strange, she thought, her gaze returning to the path, which seemed to darken in front of her. She began walking again, noticing that the night had grown colder, a chill seeping under her skin.
What is it? What do I sense?
She trod lightly but quickly. The silence became oppressive. Her breath quickened, and she dampened her lips. Something slithered around her ankle, and she stumbled, crying out. She landed on the grass, her heart hammering. Black magic as bleak and frozen as a snowcap surrounded her, but that couldn’t be. Not within the purity of the Etherlin.
She yanked at the hem of her dress to be certain there was no snake crawling up her leg. Finding nothing tangled in her skirt or limbs, she clambered to her feet and jerked her head to look over her shoulder.
A cloaked figure rushed toward her.
There wasn’t time to react.
Chapter 2
Sitting in his office, Merrick’s eyes flicked to the flat-screen television that was on but muted. He watched Alissa North climb out of a white stretch limo and walk toward a fountain. Her white dress and white blonde hair glowed in the moonlight, and then she looked over her shoulder as the camera zoomed in on her flawless face. His muscles tightened at the impact of her wide blue eyes staring at him. He must’ve s
een the perfume commercial a hundred times, but he still couldn’t look away.
Merrick took a key from his pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. Sliding the drawer open, he took the top letter from the pile and opened the envelope. Who in the twenty-first century besides a very rich heiress would use heavy bond, monogrammed stationery and a fountain pen?
He extracted the letter, one of the first she’d sent, and unfolded it.
Dear Mr. Merrick,
As usual, the roses you sent for my birthday were beautiful. As usual, I cannot accept them. Also per routine, your messenger refused to return them or the other gift to you. In fact, he went quite pale at my suggestion that he do so. I can’t help but wonder why he was so terrified at the thought. I think it very likely that your management style uses a great deal of intimidation—another thing of which I don’t approve.
Merrick smiled. She’d challenged him in the early letters, and he’d liked her for it. Just as he’d admired her at that first meeting, when she’d seen his fangs and stood her ground, controlling her fear.
He glanced back at the letter.
I distributed the flowers among the county hospital wards to patients without family. Did you know that many of the people in the county hospital are from the Varden? That makes them members of your community. Perhaps, instead of sending me flowers and gifts, which I can’t accept, you could write a check to fund one or two hospital programs. I’ve heard your businesses are very successful, and charitable giving is good for the soul—though I confess that I’m not certain whether you still have yours. From your reputation, you might have lost it playing cards or while working for your former employers. If not, I’ve enclosed the card of Mr. Robert Wendell, who can discuss philanthropy with you.
When the flowers arrived, I was pleased to find that you took my suggestion and sent a separate and longer note with them. Three whole sentences. Shockingly verbose for you. Maybe one day you’ll graduate to a full paragraph.
He laughed, then rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. He wondered, not for the first time, how long it would take him to seduce her if they were ever in the same room together again.
He had never forgotten the way she’d smelled, her vanilla-scented skin and beneath it her blood, so fresh and pure that it made his fangs ache. For how long would a drink from her throat quench his thirst? Months? And how soft would her naked body feel under his?
He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. Leaving her alone went against all his predatory instincts, but they had an unspoken understanding. She flirted with him in the letters because she felt safe. In person, she wouldn’t be bold. In person, she wouldn’t be happy to see him. So he stayed away because he wanted the letters to keep coming.
As ever, I wish you a long and happy life. Please do your utmost to let those around you enjoy the same.
Sincerely,
A.N.
Merrick set the letter on his desk and rested his hand on top of it. If she’d been human, he’d have had her by now. But Alissa North was part of a dynasty. The last heiress of the House of North. The purest of the Etherlin. Descended from the ancient muses…inspiration made flesh.
For a member of the ventala, even trying to see her would be a dangerous game. Not that danger would have stopped him if he’d thought she’d welcome his visit. Not that anything would have stopped him.
Someone knocked, returning Merrick from his thoughts.
“Come,” Merrick said, and watched the office door open. Ox maneuvered his massive bulk inside, and Merrick raised an eyebrow at Ox’s shirt. It was a shiny, seizure-inducing print of dark gold, teal, and black.
“Ox, you looking for a second job?”
“Boss?”
“Well, I figured in that shirt you must be looking for some part-time work as a pimp or a gigolo.”
“It’s Versace, boss,” Ox said, running a hand over his chest.
Merrick smirked. “You think Versace makes clothes in your size?”
“It’s Versace,” Ox said stubbornly, though a scowl clouded his features. “There’s a Versace label. You want to see it?” His thick fingers went for the buttons.
Still smiling, Merrick slipped Alissa North’s letter in the drawer and locked it. “How hard do you think it would be to switch a label? To take it out of one shirt and sew it in another…”
After a momentary pause, Ox growled, “That son-of-a-
bitch.”
Merrick’s gaze flicked back up as Ox turned toward the door.
“Before you go, you want to tell me why you came up?” Merrick asked.
Ox snapped his fingers. “Sorry, boss. Yeah. Theo Tobin called.”
Tobin. The parasitic photographer who trailed Alissa everywhere. Merrick waited.
“He wanted to let us know he’s crossed into the Varden through our patch,” Ox said.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Guess he followed the girl.”
Merrick’s stillness became preternatural. Even the atoms seemed to slow responsively.
Alissa had never entered the Varden. She was too cautious, too smart. “Call him back. Find out if he’s following her and, if so, where they are.”
Ox nodded and walked to the phone.
Merrick waited, wondering what could have enticed her to come into his world.
Two calls later, Ox hung up. “He followed her, but he lost the car when it went through a private underground tunnel into Jacobi’s territory.”
Merrick shook his head and stood, his muscles tight. She would never have agreed to go there. Someone had taken her. Kidnapped her. Unbelievable. And unwise. Rage simmered inside him.
“Call Tony and tell him I need an unmarked car. We’ll take a ride and have a look.” He paused. There would be terrible consequences if they were caught trespassing in another syndicate member’s territory. But she was there. Alissa North. On his side of the wall, and in trouble. The temptation to go after her burned in his blood. If she were in hell and the devil was home, Merrick might have stopped short of crashing the gates. Then again, maybe not.
“Ox, let’s do this quietly.”
“Like a whisper, boss.”
Chapter 3
Alissa’s head hurt. She squinted. She didn’t recognize the dark room, but could feel that she was lying on a bed. She needed something to drink.
Where? She put a hand to her temple. Her hair felt strange, stiff and prickly. Her elbow throbbed, too. I’m not well. So thirsty. Where am I?
She tried to sit up, but the room spun. She lay still for several moments, then rolled carefully onto her side and pushed herself onto her hands and knees, breathing deeply. It was better if she moved slowly.
She ran her hand along the wall until she found a switch. She turned it on and looked around at the small, spartan room that contained only a twin bed and chest of drawers.
I’m so thirsty.
“Where in the world am I?” she mumbled, struggling to recall. The last thing she remembered was leaving the Xenakis party.
What time was that?
She looked down at her chest, reassured by the sage velvet. She was still wearing her gown. Glancing around slowly, she realized that her purse wasn’t in the room. No cell phone. She glanced at her bare wrist. Her favorite bracelet, the Art Deco one from Merrick, was gone.
Both of her pale wrists had faint blue marks. She touched one and winced. Bruises. Someone had gripped her wrists tightly. Had he, or they, held her down? Nausea roiled in her belly.
She moved to the edge of the bed, dangling her bare feet over the side. Her shoes were gone, too. She put a hand to the throbbing ache in the crook of her left arm and felt small crusted scabs. Puncture wounds? She winced, feeling sick, too afraid to contemplate where she suspected she was.
How? How did I get here?
She stood, overwhelmed by dizziness for a moment. She braced herself against the wall and licked her dry lips. She had to have water.
She turned the small brass handle and
opened the door as noiselessly as possible. Down the cool, dim hall, she walked cautiously toward a lit room. She heard a man speaking. She paused, breathless. Every nerve seemed to cry out for her to turn back, but she had to have something to drink.
She moved to the edge of the room and peered in. Hanging above the couch was a horribly graphic picture of a dead naked woman. Oh, God. Nausea and dizziness. She gagged silently.
Have to get out.
The brown-haired man who was speaking on the phone had his back to her. If he turned, he would see her. Fear roared in her ears.
Every heartbeat painful, she stood frozen for a moment, then walked silently to the front door. She tried to open it, but it wouldn’t give. The deadbolt had been locked with a key. Her breath came and went in short gasps. Her chest squeezed tight.
“Hey there, princess. I’m amazed you can stand when you’re a few quarts low.”
She spun to face the man. Was he the one who’d bitten her? He’ll pay for it, she thought, fury mingling with fear. Her eyes darted around the apartment. Assuming he’s caught.
His wiry build and narrow eyes gave him a ratlike appearance, and the receding hairline and fleshy lips were mismatched, as though his genes had been too generous with some features and not generous enough with others.
“Who are you?”
His smile was pure menace. “I’m your keeper, sweetheart.”
No way!
Her legs moved, almost without her thinking. She couldn’t get past him to the door, but she could put some distance between them. She staggered down the hall, stubbing her toes. Once inside a large bedroom, she slammed the door and locked it. Her gaze darted around the room. No phone, no way to call for help, but she had to escape.
He pounded on the door, and she jumped.
“Don’t make me come in there after you. You won’t like what happens when I do.”
Her legs burned and her chest wailed, everything cramping like she’d been running for miles. She stumbled to the far wall to lean against it. She didn’t want to lose consciousness, but felt so weak. This was shock, she realized, from dehydration. From blood loss.
All That Bleeds Page 3
