by Jeya Jenson
Cassie hoped he was exaggerating; she didn’t know how to use a vacuum cleaner.
Rallying his strength, Adrien knocked the bow aside and struggled again to get to his feet, managing to raise himself only to his knees. His pupils were dilated, his stare hazy with pain and confusion. “You’d better go ahead and kill me,” he gasped, pressing his wounded arm to his body. “Because if you don’t, I swear I’ll kill Devon.” His teeth clenched fiercely, his voice finding new strength. “Then I’ll take another shot at you.”
“Bring it on.” The bow suddenly disappeared as Morgan stepped back and slung it across his shoulder. “But first, take my advice. You have everything to gain and nothing to lose if you play your cards right.”
Breathing through his mouth, fighting to stay conscious, Adrien’s brow winkled. “What do you mean?” he asked, not comprehending the cryptic words.
A crafty look crossed Morgan’s face. “Perhaps I should say that I did not come for you. I came for her.”
With those parting words, he turned with imperious intent to eye Cassie. His brows rose in an iniquitous slant. He had a lot of things in his mind, none of them good.
Scrambling to her feet, Cassie clamped her teeth against the cold nausea of dread rising in her gut. “Me?” she squeaked. She commanded her trembling legs to run, but they would not obey her. If she could only make it to the bathroom, she could lock herself in and call for help. She was one of those people decadent enough to have a phone installed in almost every room of her house, as though she could not stand to be completely out of touch with a world she’d shunned. Morgan’s unfathomable gaze, lit with a ferocious glee, held her fast.
After a minute that seemed to pass like a century, Cassie managed to take one faltering step in retreat. She immediately tripped on her own high heel, falling back and landing squarely on her ass. The moment she moved, Morgan swept forward. Grabbing her wrist, he wrenched her to her feet, then hefted her none too gently and quite unceremoniously over his shoulder. Wearing only a thong, her bare ass was up in the air for all to see. She squirmed rebelliously, beating her hands in the air, but could not free herself.
A little gasp of rage tore from her raw throat. “Let me go!” she cried, jostling helplessly in his tight grasp.
Morgan ignored her pleas for freedom. He gave her a firm swat on the butt to settle her down. “You know where to be,” he said to Adrien. “Midnight.” He turned and headed from whence he had arrived.
Cassie could only watch in shocked disbelief as Adrien’s form began to fragment oddly, slowly vanishing into the core of a luminous eddying mist.
With a start, she realized that they were the ones departing.
Chapter Sixteen
Devon Carnavorn was beside himself with rage.
“Have you completely lost your mind, Morgan?” he demanded, pointing to the frightened woman cowering on the chaise lounge in his den. “That does not look like Adrien Roth to me.”
Morgan Saint-Evanston ignored him and instead reached for his cigarette case. Opening it, he made a selection. “You make a mistake in underestimating me.” Clearly annoyed, he tapped his filterless cigarette against the face of its case to tighten the tobacco. Lighting it, he ambled over to the bar and selected a decanter. He took a quick whiff of its contents. “Sherry? Is that all you have?” He grumbled something under his breath. “Have to do, I suppose.” He splashed a liberal amount into a glass.
Devon threw up his hands in exasperation. He’d spent the entire day anticipating this hour, going over the words he would say to Adrien. At this moment his sense of rage was utterly frustrated—he certainly had not expected his hired assassin to show up with some half-naked hussy. He felt impotent, as though he’d been castrated.
“You’ve finally gone round the bend,” he snapped. “And burned out every brain cell you’ve got in your fucking head.”
Dark eyes narrowed. The sherry was downed in a single swallow. “There is method to my madness,” Morgan said, pouring a fresh drink in a second glass. Cigarette in one hand, glass in the other, he walked over and offered the drink to the pale women he’d nabbed. “Take this,” he told her. “It will calm your nerves a bit.”
She tentatively reached out and accepted it. “Thank you,” she whispered in a tiny voice. Her hand was shaking alarmingly when she lifted it to her lips. Wide eyes peered over the edge as she sipped, taking in every detail.
“As if your own nerves aren’t already comatose,” Devon snapped in a nasty aside.
Morgan recovered his freshly refilled glass and settled down in a nearby chair. Devon couldn’t fail to notice that those cigarette ashes were flying about without any clear destination.
“The lady has her place in this bourgeois drama you’ve set into play, Devon,” he began to explain expansively. “She may not be Adrien Roth, but she is the next best thing—his lover.” He arched a mischievous eyebrow. “Do you not think he will fly to the rescue of his lady love? If he has any sort of honor, he will not wish to see her harmed, and will therefore sacrifice his freedom to gain hers.”
Devon felt his blood pressure drop a bit. The words made sense. He turned to his unexpected guest. Though she trembled, she had the good sense and presence of mind not to dissolve into hysterics. She was dressed in the sheerest of lingerie that outlined and highlighted her every sexy curve. He vaguely considered offering her a robe, but decided not to. A man of hearty sexual appetites, he could most definitely appreciate the sight.
“So Adrien has taken a mate.” He reached out and caught her chin. The delicate pulse in her neck jumped as she swallowed. He could feel resistance stiffening her spine, then she acquiesced and slowly tipped back her head. His gaze searched her pale skin, looking for the tell-tale signs that she’d been fed from. To his astonishment, neither her neck nor the rise of her breasts were marked with any scar.
“Has he never fed off you?” he asked her.
Confusion crossed her face. “F—fed off m-me?” she stammered. “What do you mean?”
Losing patience, he snapped, “Has Adrien ever made love to you?”
She blushed and lowered her eyes, lashes delicately brushing her cheeks. “N—no,” she said, shaking her head. She raised a hand to brush a few stray copper curls out of her face. “At least, not in the way I’d like him to.”
Devon knew exactly what she was talking about. He easily recalled his own courtship of Rachel. As badly as he wanted to take her, he’d held himself back; their lovemaking had been limited to oral sex. He wanted to ease her into his life, slowly introduce her to the world of sexual vampirism. Had Adrien been planning the same for this woman?
There was no further time to think on the matter. The peaceful interlude was short lived.
Just as grandfather clock began to chime the midnight hour, a sudden whoosh of wind rattled the French doors. A strange mist was beginning to materialize, growing thick enough to obscure the view outside. It glided against the windows, oddly gray and shapeless. Devon thought he saw faces, dimly, like reflections in a dark pool of water, of people he vaguely recognized. His heart leapt to his throat. Invisible claws scrabbled at the glass, attacking with a violence threatening to send shards flying in every direction.
Ariel…he thought, feeling deeply disquieted. Lilith… And, oh God, Rachel’s face was there, too, etched in the depths of the mist. For a moment he was tempted to break away, rush upstairs to check on the safety of his sleeping wife. He reluctantly held his ground. Rachel was safe. A small smile crossed his lips. Adrien could not cross the threshold unless bidden.
Through a long moment, no one moved. All eyes were riveted on the eerie display.
With a sigh, Morgan set aside his glass and climbed to his feet. He reclaimed his discarded weapon. “Get a move on, Devon,” he said. “I want to get this over with and continue with my night.” He spoke of the impending execution as casually as some would discuss the daily stock market.
Gathering his courage, strength and the righteous anger of a man determined
to protect his loved ones at any cost, Devon stalked to the doors. Unlocking them, he flung both open to the night…and the beast waiting outside.
Driven by a fierce icy wind, the mist eddied into the chamber. At first a swirling mass, its motion grew slower and its core grew darker, shreds of foggy tendrils pulling together into a definite form. It took only seconds for the mist to vanish as the solid form of Adrien Roth stepped forth. He looked at though he’d dressed hastily, the shirt he’d thrown on wrinkled and crookedly buttoned. His brown eyes sparked, face twisted with hate. His ferocious gaze searched the room. As his stare found and settled on the woman, all hate seemed to drain out of him. He immediately passed Devon by to kneel down by the lounge and gather her into his embrace.
“Cassie—darling—are you all right?” he asked. She fell against him with a sob even as he pressed a kiss to her lips.
She seemed to snap out of her shock. “Adrien,” she murmured. “Is it really you?”
He nodded. “Yes. I’m going to get you out of here. Nothing will happen to you, I promise.”
She reached out, touching Adrien’s face as if to reassure herself that he was indeed solid. “It’s true,” she whispered. “You’re not human.” She glanced around. She didn’t seem to be afraid. She was strangely, almost unnaturally calm. “None of you are.” The awe of new revelation colored her voice.
“I can’t explain now,” Adrien said, taking her hand. “Maybe not ever. Just know that I wanted to love you, Cassie, but I couldn’t bring you into my world.”
Devon stood unmoving, face rigid and unyielding at the display of tender affection Adrien displayed toward his woman. He had no pity for the man despite the obvious attachment he had for her. This was the man who’d helped murder Ariel in cold blood, a man he’d wished the thousand torments of Hell itself on. This was, too, the man who’d threatened the lives of his wife and children to be. He doubted that Adrien had come to accept himself as one of the Kynn, just as he held no doubt that Adrien intended to follow through with his threats. In a world of kill or be killed, the Amhais would be the one to fall this day. He had to end the threat to his kind at any cost—even if he had to kill another of the brethren.
“Your reunion with your beloved is quite touching,” he snapped. “But you and I have some unfinished business to settle between us.”
Adrien slowly got to his feet. “You see me as the man who once judged your kind and found them unworthy to live,” he said.
Gazes locked in hostility, the two enemies stared each other down, assessing, tending, preparing.
“I see you only as a murderer, Mister Roth—a man too blind to see the truth,” Devon spat. “The Kynn have the right to exist and my children have the right to be born.”
Adrien opened the collar of his shirt to show the thin scars circling his neck. The bleakness in his eyes hardened, taking on an icy animation of their own. His lips flicked in a mirthless grin. “Did you think that torture would better persuade me to see your kindred in a more favorable light?” he asked without flinching.
Devon remembered the letters that Adrien had written, outlining the perverse things Lilith had done to him. He realized that in his attempt to avenge Ariel’s death, he had acted with an impulse that had gone badly awry. The repercussions had created an ever widening circle around him. “I did not intend for Lilith to take matters that far,” he countered, struggling for words. “I only wished to show you what you were killing was not wholly evil.”
“You couldn’t convince me of that,” Adrien spat. “If I had the choices to make again, I would do the same exact thing.” He drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. “I am one of the Amhais. We are watchers and protectors.”
Devon narrowed his eyes. “If I had the choice to make again, you would die the very night we took you out of the alleys.”
Spreading his arms, Adrien turned his hands palm up. “That’s my intent as well,” he said in a clear and level voice. “You’d better not let me walk away tonight or I will come back and I will kill those spawn you call children.” His hand disappeared briefly behind his back. When it came back into view, he brandished the silver bolt that had struck him down.
“This is all I need to take you out for good,” he snarled, launching his body toward Devon with all the furies of righteous revenge in his coiled muscles. The two men hit the floor, each desperately grappling for the upper hand.
Devon felt the sting of the arrow’s razor-sharp tip graze his neck, perilously close to his jugular. He was not a man given or accustomed to hand-to-hand combat, but when push came to shove, he shoved. Hard. He sent the slayer sprawling. Adrien barely had time to regain his sense of balance before Devon sprang to his feet and advanced again.
Time reeled, slid momentarily away, annihilating the years that lay between this present time and the night that Ariel was slain. He felt the anguish of losing her all over again lancing his heart with a fresh, bold pain. Without hardly knowing what he was doing, he backhanded Adrien across the face. His hit was hard and forceful, taking the man to the ground. In height and build they were almost equally matched, but Devon’s fury gave him the strength to strike a devastating blow.
“Stop it!” Cassie screamed, terrified. She tried to rush to Adrien’s side.
Throwing out his arm, Morgan blocked her. “Best to stay out of the way and let them fight it out, girl,” he warned.
White and shaking, she sat back down, a mask of worry over her lover covering her face. Her hands flew to her mouth in apprehension, terror…and understanding.
Adrien came up on his knees, panting heavily. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. He lifted his hand to his face, bringing away fingers tinged with red.
Hand at his own throat, Devon looked to the assassin. “Why didn’t you stop him?” he demanded.
Morgan shrugged, flicking longish bangs off his pale forehead. “And miss the chance to watch two Englishmen beating each other senseless? Does my Irish heart good and I rather enjoyed the sight,” he said, fighting to keep a straight face. “Besides it seems to me that you had some of that coming.” This time the smirk did escape. “Put on that stiff upper lip, Devon, and be glad that you got the best of him.”
“You have a perverse sense of humor,” Devon grumbled, checking his wound in a nearby mirror. It was only a scratch, thankfully not deep enough to leave a terrible scar. The Kynn had regenerative healing properties. But while wounds mended quickly, they didn’t heal without leaving a mark on the skin. “You’re more hindrance than help.”
“I only do what I am hired to do. No more, no less.”
“Then do what I hired you to do,” he growled. “I want the threat he brings to my people ended.”
“Very well.” Morgan stepped up behind the downed man. He raised the bow. “The pain will be brief,” he promised, pressing the bow to Adrien’s back, where his heart beat under his ribcage.
“God, no,” Cassie screeched and covered her eyes. “Please don’t!”
“Don’t look, honey.” Adrien glanced up over his shoulder. “You can make her forget what she’s seen. Don’t let her remember this.”
“The last request of a doomed man,” Devon snorted. “Your feelings for her are truly touching, but I am not impressed.”
Morgan cut in. “She will not remember anything. I will see to it.”
“When did you get a conscience?” Devon snapped.
“Your wife could be a widow yet,” came the ice-smooth warning.
Devon shut up, still a bit unsure as to where Morgan’s allegiance lay. That crafty Irishman was up to something, he was sure of it. He just didn’t know what it was—yet.
He turned his eyes to the man he’d finally brought to his knees in the most literal sense. This is what I’ve been waiting for. What I’m doing ensures the lives of my children. He thrust away any thought of mercy and dared not concern himself with the wrongs of the past—he could only think of the future. He’d staked all their lives on the rightness of the execu
tion he was ordering. “Pull the damn trigger,” he urged. “End this menace in our lives.”
Devon felt his mate’s presence before he ever heard the fall of her footsteps. Now in the ninth month of her pregnancy, Rachel stood under the threshold. She was dressed in a dressing gown, her hair mussed as though her head had risen from the pillow only moments before. Barefoot, she swayed slightly as she walked, one hand pressed against her mountainous belly, as though her burden was almost too much for her thin frame to endure. Her face was drawn with discomfort, dark circles ringing her eyes. In her other hand she held a clutch of letters—the very same letters Adrien Roth had written threatening her life and that of her children. Devon felt the clutch of worry grasp at his heart. He’d thought the letters securely locked away in his desk. He’d resolved to burn them after Adrien’s death. How had Rachel come to have them now?
“Stop,” he said tersely. Everyone froze. How had she known to come at this very instant? It was like providence granting Adrien a stay of execution. Hurrying to her side, he shelved the thought for later pondering.
“Rachel—you shouldn’t be out of bed, darling.” He tried to take the letters from her hand, feeling dismay and distress at her presence. He hadn’t wanted her to witness such an ugly scene. He’d wanted it taken care of in a clean manner. Looking at her tired, strained face, he said, “Go back to bed. This will soon be over.”
Rachel unexpectedly twisted away from her husband. “Let me go, Devon, please.” She sighed with the weariness of physical fatigue, but beyond her exhaustion, determination gleamed in her eyes. She’d come to have her say. Her searching gaze fixed on Adrien. She walked over to him, stride hampered by her size. When she came to a stop, she stood unmoving; beautiful, proud and angry.
Devon stood riveted, part of him poised for action, part of him paralyzed with dismay. Why had Rachel come? What did she wish to say? Did she not realize the danger she was in? How fast could Morgan pull that trigger if Adrien chose to attack?
