That was way east of Cleveland. “And what do I get out of it?”
“They will count compliance with this command as proof that you are the Lustrata.”
“And if I refuse? Perhaps it’s in my best interest to not give them such proof. Even without the Erus Veneficus business, they wouldn’t all be on my side.”
“That’s very true. If that is your decision, the Council are deliberating, weighing the risks of angering the Vampire Executive International Network by taking him themselves.”
As if they could. “Sounds like avoiding one war only to start another.”
“WEC can negotiate with the vampires more easily.”
“With blood.”
“Exactly. That does seem to render the least harm. The fey will take many lives in a war, or a single life to avert it. If the latter comes to pass, it may cost WEC some blood, but our blood can be regenerated.”
“So basically you’re saying that the Witches Council has already sold me out, and that the vampires will likely do the same to him—if there’s a benefit in it for them.”
“Yes.”
So we’re screwed. “The only way I can actually benefit here is if I save WEC the hassle of those negotiations, and deliver Menessos for them, thereby saving them their blood.”
Gravely, she said, “Yes, child.”
Child. “You don’t think there’s a chance that he’s important enough to them to protect?”
“He’s lord of the northeastern quarter of the United States, he’s in their major hierarchy, but he’s still replaceable. However”—Xerxadrea cleared her throat—“if they owe him favors or he has some secret information he can use to blackmail someone who could make a difference, perhaps they might rally to his aid.”
She was giving me suggestions in code.
“But such unrealistic notions, if factual, would save him and cast you to your knees begging for mercy in an Elder’s Court, and it wouldn’t be mine.”
That sounded decidedly terrible. “You’re guaranteeing me that my compliance will earn me WEC’s favor?”
“It’s the best deal you’re going to get.”
I considered all this information, the options she was displaying for me. “Xerxadrea, do you honestly think the witches could take Menessos?”
“I doubt it would be easy, child, but I’m certain they can take him. They’re prepared to have you Bindspoken to do it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The protrepticus went to static, and when I checked the little screen, it was blank. The dread shading my view of the situation darkened even more. Fear tingled on my spine. I wondered how the Bindspoken ritual was performed, how many witches it took to achieve it. Does it hurt?
I returned to chopping up vegetables, and the weight of the knife in my grasp felt reassuring. Still, I jumped when the door flew open.
Johnny came in. He shut the door, scanned the room as if he hadn’t seen me, and called out, “Lucy, I’m home,” doing a surprisingly good impression of Desi Arnaz.
I really wanted to play along and not think about WEC’s threat but I hadn’t a clue what Lucy would reply to keep it going.
He came to the kitchen area. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Well, I’ve been told that the Erus Veneficus has a duty to be pampered and apparently being pampered does not include cooking, but you know me.”
“You’re a rule breaker?” He feigned shock. “What happened to ‘the right thing for the right reason’ bit?”
Making big, innocent eyes at him, I said, “Helping myself is the right thing when the reason is my own hunger and that of my hardworking man’s.”
“Ooooo.” He planted a kiss on my cheek, slipped behind me, and copied the gesture on the other side. Suddenly the knife was in his grip, not mine, and he was chopping the veggies more skillfully than I could. “Tuck your fingers just under like this,” he said, showing me his technique, “and keep the tip of the knife on the cutting board at all times. You have more control that way. You try.”
He set the knife down, and as I picked it up again, his hands went to my waist. I finished chopping the rest of the peppers while he kissed the unbandaged side of my neck and whispered, “Good. Now, isn’t that better?”
“Yeah.”
“So what are you making?”
“Pasta and veggies.”
“Meat?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Heh, heh, heh.” His warm touch rose up my sides, not tickling, but moving so his fingers could just stroke the underside of my bra. “How about breast? Chicken breast, that is.” And then he was gone, getting meat from the refrigerator. In minutes he had the pasta in the boiling water, and was preparing to stir-fry the meat and veggies in separate pans.
“One pan,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.” A little chicken would be okay. He poured olive oil in the pan then added the sliced meat, stirring it around with a wooden spoon. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Yeah. I mean, we knew those Beholders work hard and fast, but damn.”
“Let me cook then. You supervise.”
“No, I got it.”
Since he was taking over, I went to sit at the bar side.
I considered telling him about my run-in and power struggle with Menessos, but that could lead to the threat Menessos made and I didn’t want to add to Johnny’s stress today. I’d gotten Menessos’s promise and that was good enough.
He put the wooden spoon down. “Is that another what’s-his-house painting?”
“Waterhouse. Yes.”
“Figures.”
“Don’t you like it?” I rotated my chair to examine it again. “The color works perfectly in here.”
Johnny checked it again. “Yeah. I guess it’s all right.”
I spun back. “It’s ‘all right’? Straightlaced and geeky little museum curators would get into fistfights over that painting.”
“Can we get that on pay-per-view?” Laughing, he added, “I remember a boxing match that Ig took me t—”
I waited for him to finish, but he didn’t. The pan on the stove was now receiving his complete attention.
“And?” My elbows rested on the counter.
“Guy got knocked out in the third round.” His tone was even.
The rest of the cooking was done in silence. When Johnny served up two scrumptious-smelling plates and set them on the counter, he said, “I’ve decided that”—he lifted a bottle of white wine—“Ig can’t help us and the pack is going to be reeling so it’s best to just leave them alone.” He dug around in the drawer and came up with the corkscrew. “We’ll find another way.” He opened the wine, poured two stemmed glasses, and put them on the counter for us. He came around to join me and took his own seat. “There’s always another way, right?”
I smiled. He smiled back, but his eyes were somber and sad. He wanted me to agree with him. His father figure was dying, and I definitely understood why he wouldn’t take action to become Domn Lup through ending that man’s life. I wasn’t close to Aquula, but I wasn’t willing to take her life—even to save Menessos’s.
Still, he couldn’t avoid his destiny forever.
On one hand, I wanted to push him toward it. I felt desperate for help to save Menessos. The pack would have to do as Johnny bid them if he claimed that leadership. On the other hand, this wasn’t my only option for aid. Xerxadrea had pointed out another avenue to pursue.
But between those hands was my heart, and it recognized that right now Johnny was clinging to the last bit of control over his life and his decisions. If I pushed him, in any direction, it would only make this moment ugly when it didn’t need to be. All I truly needed to do was support Johnny. “Right.”
We ate in silence, but with my last bite I couldn’t resist nonchalantly bumping his leg gently with my foot. He bumped back in kind, and soon we were having a contest under the bar countertop like two bratty siblings. When my next turn came, he twisted his rotating barstool qu
ickly away and slid out of range.
“No fair!” I cried, but he wheeled on me, spinning my seat. “I just ate!” I protested. After he sent me around three full times, I was laughing and squealing objections. He stopped me abruptly and I nearly tumbled from the stool, a bit dizzy. He watched me laugh, nakedly admiring.
“What?”
Johnny didn’t answer; he leaned in. His mouth, those perfect, just-full-enough lips pressed to mine. That sweet tightening of low muscles gripped me deep inside, squeezing desire through me.
I buried my fingers in his dark curls and kissed him. His hand on the small of my back, he drew me to him. His heated touch started a chain reaction. In seconds, all my inhibitions had burned away.
He lifted my shirt up, breaking off the kiss long enough to yank it over my head. Inching my bottom to the front edge of my barstool, I wrapped my legs around him and leaned back, arching my spine. My head fell back as he unfastened the front-hook bra. A shrug and the bra dropped to the floor. I swiveled my hips, twisting the stool, to grind against him.
Johnny gave an appreciative growl and his hands stroked my thighs. When his fingers left the denim and touched my bare skin at my waist, sensations rocked through me. He traced my ribs, then lightly caressed the skin where my breasts rounded up. It tickled and teased. My nipples hardened, aching for his touch.
I arched my back further, begging wordlessly for more. My reward was the tip of his tongue flicking, wetting my skin—just enough that the cool air of the room made me even more aware of how I yearned for his touch.
Johnny unbuttoned the top of my jeans.
He released the zipper with maddening slowness. I couldn’t wait for him to be inside of me. “Please.”
Deftly removing my shoes, he freed me of my jeans and panties at once, then glanced disapprovingly at my socks. I bit my lip, then shifted my legs until I could hook toes in the top of one sock and push it off, then repeated for the other.
Lowering my feet to the footrest on my barstool, I leaned forward, reaching for him. In a heartbeat, his shirt had joined my clothes on the floor. My eyes took in the tattoos, the lean hard chest, the contoured abs. I reached for his belt buckle.
“No,” he whispered, and shoved the plates and glasses away. He scooped me up and set me on the black granite countertop. It was cold and I couldn’t suppress a shiver.
With a masculine look of approval for my little shiver-shimmy, he stood there between my knees and unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his jeans, and opened the zipper with excruciating slowness. I watched, waiting and ready. So ready. He pushed his jeans down and exposed his smooth, hard cock.
I whispered, “Give it to me.”
He didn’t. He pressed closer and kissed me, his usually soft lips now firm and urgent. His tongue searched for mine. He tasted like sunshine, like sweet heat, like sugar boiling into rich caramel.
My legs wrapped around him again, scooting me to the edge of the counter. “Just a taste,” he whispered, and dropped to his knees. He ran his tongue over me until my legs were quivering. I gasped as my every nerve jolted in response. It was so good, I was so close, but this wasn’t enough.
“Please, Johnny, I want you inside me.”
He stood, adjusting himself.
I couldn’t wait another second. Not even to be teased. I squeezed with my legs, trying to thrust him into me. But he stood firm, not letting me. He gave a very male little laugh. He was in control this time.
He rolled his hips, his cock rubbing up and down my wet labia.
Putting my hands far back, I stretched over the counter, arching up so his movements hit at the right angle, rubbing my clitoris in a way that felt so damned good. I sighed.
Then he pressed inside of me.
The breath I’d just squandered rushed back as I gasped. He grasped the counter on either side of my buttocks, and I squeezed my legs around him. He had an instant rhythm, thrusting hard and deep, retreating more slowly. I relished the retreat, but it was the harsh thrusts as his body pounded against me that rushed me to the edge.
I rose up and held his face in my hands, staring into his Wedjat-tattooed eyes. His gaze fell, and I followed it down, watching as our bodies joined, seeing how he filled me up.
That did it for me.
I fell back across the counter, arms spread wide, knocking the wine over. Cool liquid poured under me, spilled into my hair. One glass shattered on the floor but I didn’t care. Ecstasy roiled me. The wine made the granite slick, and Johnny used that to his advantage. Instead of holding the counter, he held my hips, pulled and pushed me, fucking me fast.
I couldn’t cry out, my voice was lost in the electric tremors shaking me. It was glorious. The theater could have fallen down around us and I wouldn’t have cared as long as he didn’t stop. I didn’t even care when Menessos flashed through my mind, when I felt him tap the hex and taste my pleasure with me. He savored my wanton disregard like a piece of candy on his tongue. He laughed and I felt the heat of his breath in my ear, felt the sting of his fangs in my neck, felt his fingers on my flesh.
Words whispered through my mind. Menessos’s voice. Latin, a chant ending with: in signum amoris. Those words left my own lips, in whispered sighs. “In signum amoris. In signum amoris. In signum amoris.”
Johnny growled as pleasure claimed him.
Together we rode the bliss to its end, panting, entwined, and gratefully ensnared in each other’s arms. It was beautiful.
Until I realized Johnny was kissing my sternum and whispering, “In signum amoris …”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Johnny carried me to the bed and we spooned until he was snoring deeply. Then I slipped away, hoping to sneak out. Yeah, finally a chance for cuddling after sex and I’m leaving.
He roused and sleepily asked, “Where you going?”
“To shower.” To keep it from being a lie, I went and showered. The wine had matted my hair anyway. By the time I’d finished, he was sleeping soundly, so I found the soft, white couture robe that Risqué had mentioned. I donned the robe and its matching slippers, intending to creep quietly from the room.
The industrial door and the noise beyond it was going to be a problem, but I had to find Menessos and confront him about this. Bastard. I put him in his place, and at his first chance, he’s harassing me in a new way.
Releasing all the bolts and then twisting the handle, I opened the door. I slithered out fast and shut it as quietly as possible.
I hurried down the stairs and to Menessos’s door where I knocked loudly. I was going to get an answer about what had just happened. Plus Xerxadrea’s warning about being Bindspoken gave me a second line of questioning to pursue.
No one answered the door. I tried the knob. Locked.
Stalking through the green room and into the backstage area, I found a Beholder washing out paintbrushes in a deep sink. His jeans, T-shirt, and work boots were spattered with dark paint. He was wiry, but his upper body bulged with lean muscles.
“You there.”
“Yeah?” He glanced up. His eyes were an unusual green-gray-brown, and conveyed a brokenness that made me uncomfortable, like the eyes of a pit fighting dog. When he recognized me he stood straighter and said, “Yes, my lady?”
“Do you know where Menessos is?”
He bowed his head. “Follow me.”
Tromping around the theater wet-headed and wearing nothing but a robe wasn’t quite what I’d had in mind, but I couldn’t back out now. We passed into the theater. I saw Mountain carrying thick bolts of fabric on either shoulder, but the bulk of the crew was vampire. My guide gave a shrill whistle. Everyone stopped and came to a respectful attention.
Seeing that the nearest half-dozen of them were scenting me, I called out, “You may continue.” The painter led me through the house, past Seven at the podium—she gave me a distracted nod—and into the lobby. We went up one flight of now-cleaned and restored stairs to the hall. At the end of the hall to my right, two pale and lean vampires stood on
either side of a cherry door with an elegant polished brass knob.
“The future Erus Veneficus would see the Master,” the Beholder said, and bowed, leaving me with the vampires. Both seemed formidable and fierce. One could have been a skinny Viking; the other could have been a Zulu warrior. If an expression other than “badass” happened to take either face, neither of them would have survived.
They waited expectantly, radiating the threat of being hungry and on edge. I had an urge to throw my arms up and shout “Boo!” but that probably would have gotten me killed.
“May I go in?”
“Always,” the Zulu said.
The Viking opened the door for me. He breathed in as I passed, scenting me like a ravenous waerewolf standing outside a steakhouse on Friday night.
Inside, the room was like a gentleman’s library, cherry paneling, dark leather-upholstered furniture. A full suit of armor stood in one corner, relics and weaponry of ages past in glass museum cases. A newer, gleaming dagger with wicked curves rested in a case upon the desk Menessos sat behind. He smiled up at me as smug as a Cheshire cat.
Stopping between the two guest chairs before his desk, I demanded, “What the hell did you do?”
“I have been in here for hours, tending my administrative duties, taking a few calls, approving orders, payment on other orders, and—”
“I don’t see any paperwork.” His desk was empty except for decorative items and a closed laptop sitting on an unmarked blotter.
“I completed it just before you arrived all lovely in that robe and smelling of wolf.” The look in his eyes made me truly understand the meaning of “devour.” “Your cheeks are flushed. I might think I’d embarrassed you but your hands have risen to perch defiantly on your shapely hips, so”—he steepled his fingers—“I conclude the flush is more anger.”
“We both know I can force answers from you, Menessos. Don’t make me.”
“You are not attempting to threaten me, are you, my dear?”
Fatal Circle Page 12
