Enthrall Me (Underbelly Chronicles Book 4)

by Tamara Hogan

  “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

  “Security cameras. We saw you drive into the lot.”

  When the hallway dead-ended at a heavy door, Antonia slapped her hand against a small screen mounted at its side. It scanned her hand from top to bottom, and after a couple-second pause, a tiny light changed from red to green, accompanied by a near-silent click. Antonia gave the metal door a full-body yank, revealing an identical door straight ahead, more security cameras, and a stairwell leading down.

  Her body hair prickled. What was this place?

  Antonia gestured to the other security door. “Parking is through there. Wyland will give you a garage door opener.”

  Indoor parking. So that was the reason she hadn’t seen any cars in the lot. “That’s convenient,” she said, following Antonia down the stairs. With cars parked inside and the foyer light turned off, passers-by would have no idea anyone was here.

  Which was probably the point.

  They stopped one flight down, at another security door guarded by cameras and biometrics. The stairwell descended at least one more floor that she could see. Curiosity simmered as Antonia repeated the access sequence she’d performed at the top of the stairs, yanking on the heavy door.

  “Come on in.”

  She followed Antonia from the dingy stairwell into a huge, white, blindingly-bright room that, depending on which area caught your attention, looked like a high-tech computer lab, Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts, or an artifact storage facility like the one she’d seen in a documentary about The Smithsonian Institution. “Wow.”

  “Sorry,” Antonia said. “I should have warned you about the lights.”

  The back half of the huge room was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelving units, cleverly floor-mounted on a track system that allowed the shelves to be moved when a document or artifact was needed, then pushed together to maximize the storage space. Right now, the units were positioned so they created a long center aisle, except for one shelf that jutted into the empty space. Closer to the entrance and off to the right was a bank of computers, scanners, and monitors. Bailey slouched at one of the computers, headset on, bobbing and typing to a song only she could hear. On the long table to the left sat an ancient leather-bound book, a pair of white gloves, and an open pack of Bubble Yum. In the corner behind the table was an open doorway leading to what looked like a kitchenette. Given the antiseptic cleanliness of the work area, the scent of coffee was startling.

  “Hey, Wyland!” Antonia shouted.

  Bailey’s chair whipped around. “Christ on a freaking cracker, Antonia—oh, Tia. Hi.” She removed her headset and glanced up at the bank of security monitors reflecting nearly a dozen different views of the building and its surroundings. Sure enough, two screens displayed the entrance, and her car. “I didn’t realize you’d arrived.”

  “Wyland asked me to keep an eye out for her. Where is he?” Antonia peered down the center aisle. “Wyland, Tia’s here!”

  Wyland’s head and upper body suddenly appeared from behind the jutting shelf. “One moment,” he called back.

  “Hurry up, dude. We’re late!” She turned toward Tia. “Bailey and I were supposed to be at Dad and Claudette’s house over an hour ago, and it’s going to take us almost that long to drive there.”

  There was a mechanical hum as the shelves moved back into tidy alignment, and then Wyland was walking toward them, dress shoes clicking against the hard floor, wearing trim black pants and a sky blue button-down shirt that did amazing things for his icy Nordic coloring. His pale hair was slicked back into a low ponytail, showcasing his haughty cheekbones.

  He reminded her of a runway model—lanky, striking, and…hungry. Yes, his killer cheekbones were even more prominent today. “Do you have any blood here?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Antonia glanced at Wyland and swore. “Why does such a smart man wait until he’s practically starving before he feeds? Be right back.”

  Wyland reached her as Antonia disappeared into the kitchen. “Tia.”

  “Wyland. Sir.”

  After the slightest hesitation, he bent to kiss her cheeks. His subtle body scent snarled her thoughts, and the slight scratch of stubble sent lust streaking down her spine. His lips were surprisingly warm, and so much softer than they looked.

  Stepping back, she cleared her throat.

  He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, then removed them again with a faint scowl. His eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair, framed pale blue eyes the color of faded jeans, or a glacial lake. “Thank you for offering to help, and please don’t call me ‘Sir,’” he said with a sigh. “It makes me feel positively ancient.”

  Sweeping his tall, lean frame with a head-to-toe glance, she snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right.” Sensuality, tightly leashed, simmered off him in waves. Stop mooning. Back to business. “What am I helping with tonight?” She looked around in amazement. “What is this place?”

  “It’s our Archives—the primary site, at any rate.” His face was etched with exhaustion. She could tell by the subtle movement of his mouth that he was tonguing his left incisor. “Let me show you around.”

  “First things first.” Antonia carried an oversized plastic cup emblazoned with a purple and gold Minnesota Vikings helmet. “It’s snack time.”

  “You’re a fine one to lecture people about taking care of themselves,” Bailey scolded. “Thankfully Tia noticed you look about ready to drop.”

  He shot her a look she couldn’t read, but accepted the glass from Antonia. The rim of the Big Gulp-sized glass was so large it covered the lower half of his face, but as he drank, she could see the double grooves carved between his eyebrows smooth out slightly.

  “Thank you,” he said, lowering the glass. “I’d lost track of time.”

  There wasn’t the slightest hint of blood staining his lips, not even in the corners of his mouth. A sudden urge to muss him up, to drive her hands into that slicked-back hair and lick blood from his lips, almost clobbered her sideways.

  Did he look so neat and clean after drinking from the vein?

  Antonia glanced at her, then at Wyland, her nostrils delicately flaring. Yeah, there was no way to hide knee-knocking lust from the young succubus—not when her species absorbed emotional energy for sustenance. “Why don’t you show Tia around, Wyland?” Antonia suggested. “Bailey and I have to get going.”

  Wyland’s gaze found hers. “Are you comfortable being here without a chaperone?”

  Comfortable? Hardly. “This is hardly Regency England,” she replied, not hiding her amusement. “No chaperones required—not on my end, anyway.”

  His black pupils dilated, shoving the icy blue out of the way.

  Okay, that came out a lot more suggestively than she’d planned.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d be pleased to give you a tour.”

  Oh yeah, he felt it, too. Anticipation bubbled like champagne.

  “All righty then.” Bailey tugged on Antonia’s arm. “We’ll just…leave you to it.”

  Despite what she’d said to Wyland, Tia watched Bailey and Antonia gather their belongings with more than a little concern. What the hell was she thinking, flirting with the Vampire Second? Wyland wasn’t a casual hook-up, someone with whom she could share a simple night of pleasure and then move on. There would be no ‘simple’ about it, not with him.

  “’Bye,” Bailey called from the security door.

  “If you see Scarlett, tell her I’ll call soon,” she called back.

  “Will do.”

  The women disappeared, the heavy steel door slamming behind them.

  Leaving her and Wyland all alone.

  As the door closed with a dungeon-like clang, Wyland cursed his testosterone-addled stupidity. Tia’s words had been a challenge, a silky sexual gauntlet thrown right at his feet. He should have left it lying there, ignored and unheeded, but he hadn’t—and he couldn’t blame it on the fresh blood surging through his system, or on a monumental lack of s
leep.

  He hadn’t made such a critical error in a very long time.

  He barely stopped himself from rubbing his burning eyes. Between emergencies at the hospital and his Council responsibilities, he hadn’t slept deeply in nearly two days. But did she think he was asexual? Neutered? That it was safe to tease him, given his advanced years? He ached to show her, in the most direct, primitive way, that he was no Regency fop bound by the rules of the ton.

  “Could we start the tour back there, in the kitchenette?” Tia asked. Her voice stroked like velvet. “I could use something to drink.”

  “Certainly.” He gestured for her to precede him. He’d offer her basic hospitality, give her the tour she’d requested, and assign her a task so monumentally tedious that she’d never come back again. Then he’d go home, seek the oblivion of his featherbed, and try to get a couple hours’ sleep before the next emergency call. Unfortunately, blood diseases didn’t operate on a predictable timetable—and to vampires, blood was life.

  As they passed the long table on their way to the kitchenette, he dragged his gaze from Tia’s swaying, heart-shaped bottom, looking at the ancient leather-bound book Antonia hadn’t put away before leaving. One of the oldest artifacts in their collection and not scheduled for preservation for months, he’d asked Antonia to look—to very carefully look—for references to a youthful Valerian, to Sigurd, or to The Old Ways. Though she’d worked diligently, popping annoying bubbles, she hadn’t bothered to disguise her yawns.

  It was a perfect assignment for Tia. And speaking of perfect…her curvy rear end, covered in tight, black denim. Clothing styles had changed dozens times or more since he’d last thought about undressing a woman, and the fashions of this era left very little mystery about a woman’s physical contours. Back in turn-of-the-century England, it had taken long, long minutes for Deirdre’s ladies’ maids to remove corsets, chemises, petticoats, silk stockings, and whisper-thin shifts while he watched from a nearby chaise. Deirdre’s gowns, made by top French modistes, had been exquisite pieces of art, requiring, as she’d said, “a delicate touch” to remove. Watching the slow, careful disrobing had been foreplay in itself, but Tia’s denims looked like they’d stand up to rougher handling—

  “Wyland?” Tia glanced over her shoulder. “How long has all this—” she gestured to the roof and to the floor with a wave of her arm “—been here?”

  He fought to get his thoughts back on track. “We acquired the building and property about five years ago,” he said as they reached the small kitchen, “and we excavated the underground facility soon afterward.” Up until that time, most of their culture’s fragile artifacts and documents had been stored in the catacombs under Valerian’s house—not that everything had been moved yet. There was still one room to deal with, at the far end of the tunnel. There never seemed to be enough time. “Right now, we’re focused on document preservation work, and digitizing the written materials.” The project was moving at a snail’s pace, but there were only so many people he trusted to work with these materials. According to Lukas’s background check, Tia Quinn was one of them. Lukas had reassured him that Tia had never—not once—reported anything that would put their culture at risk. For a journalist, she’d somehow managed to walk on the right side of a mighty fine line.

  She looked at the speckled linoleum floor. “How many floors down?”

  “Three floors underground, all climate controlled, with the garage up top.” He put the plastic cup in the sink and turned on the water. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Some blood, I think. It’s been a long day.” Not waiting for him, she went to the refrigerator, opened it, and peered inside. She pulled a plastic bag of blood off the top shelf, raised it to her mouth, and drove her sharp, tiny fangs into it with a soft pop.

  Lust zinged. “May I offer you a glass?” he strangled out.

  “No, thanks,” she said around the bag. “This is fine.”

  His eyes locked onto her lips as she suckled, onto her throat as she swallowed the life-giving blood. He imagined her hands, cradling his cock like she did that bag. Her lips, greedily suckling on his—

  Bugger. With a quick pivot, he turned back to the sink, washing the cup with more attention than the task required.

  “Mmm.” Her low moan slithered down his spine.

  He had to look.

  She pulled the bag away from her mouth and licked her lips. “This is good.”

  His heart pounded in time with the pulse he could see fluttering at the base of her neck. His penis stiffened. Reaching into the refrigerator himself, he snatched another bag from the shelf and drove his fangs into the flexible plastic.

  It was either that, or her neck.

  She threw away her empty bag and explored the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers, oblivious to his bloodlust.

  Scowling, he drank faster.

  “There you go,” she said approvingly. “You really shouldn’t let so much time go between feedings.”

  Her maternal tone irked him. He was Wyland, the Vampire Second. He’d been feeding himself three hundred years longer than she’d been walking the Earth.

  It irked him even more that she was right.

  He drained the bag, then dropped it in the garbage can. The top closed with a metallic clang. Nourishment surged through his system, but the blood didn’t do anything to counteract his desire for her. Time to get out of here. “Are you done snooping?”

  She closed the door of the cabinet under the sink, the slightest hint of pink staining her cheeks. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”

  “Let me give you a quick tour of the rest of the place, and then we can get to work.”

  “Okay.”

  Despite her agreement, there was nothing quick about the tour. An hour later, he was still showing her their treasures, and if pressed, he’d have admitted he enjoyed it. She had a quick mind, and asked clever, probing questions. She seemed especially interested in how their worldwide information network had evolved over time.

  “So vampires scattered throughout the world have sent reports to the Archives for hundreds of years?” she marveled. “That’s a lot of material.”

  He nodded, gesturing to the rows and rows of shelves with a wide swing of his arm. “That said, much of what you see here is the work of a single person. Valerian started recording information about our culture, and its intersection with humanity, when he was a very young man. Much of our history was literally written by his hand.”

  Tia appeared awed, as well as she should.

  “Remember that before the printing press was invented, the ability to read and write was largely the purview of clergy. Valerian masqueraded as such for many, many years.”

  “He’s older than the printing press,” Tia murmured.

  “Its invention was a quantum leap for our people as well as for humanity,” he said. “As Val encountered other literate vampires during his travels, he asked them to record their observations, and send them to the Archives.”

  “I’m aware of his great age, of course, but I’ve never given much thought to things elderly vampires have seen over their life spans.” She looked at him. “I understand you started studying with Valerian in England, in the late 1600s?”

  “Early 1700s.” Bloody hell, why bother correcting her? Either date meant he was old as graveyard dirt.

  “You met Valerian back when you were in medical school?”

  Met him? Valerian had sought him out, and probably saved his life. Wyland’s passionate interest in blood transfusion had bordered on heretical, and Valerian had provided the means for him to explore the properties of the rich, red nectar that provided sustenance to their kind away from prying human eyes.

  “And you became the Second less than a hundred years later?”

  Her warm alto voice, and the way she framed her questions, invited one to confide. He couldn’t forget he was being interviewed, and by an expert. “When the Civil War broke out, Valerian felt he was needed in the Colonies. I
remained in Europe, and expanded our network.” Until Bram had published that damn novel. Who’d have thought that, after toiling away with pen and paper for years, his friend would find literary fame with a vampire story?

  Bram’s subject matter couldn’t be a coincidence.

  He turned his attention back to Tia. “Modern communication methods both simplify this effort, and make it more complex.”

  She grinned as she glanced at the computers. “You’re buried in email?”

  “Yes. Encrypted email has become our primary collection tool—very efficient—but I occasionally remind our gatherers that images and objects tell important stories, too. Let me show you something.” He guided her into the aisle with a courteous touch at the small of her back, brushing the slice of warm, bare skin above her low-slung belt. Clenching his jaw, he manipulated the shelves on their tracks, exposed the rack he wanted, and opened one of the dozens of shallow, flat storage drawers.

  She looked at the scrap of wrinkled, soot-covered parchment under treated glass, and read the shakily-written words aloud: “They are burning us as witches.” She looked up at him. “This is from The Burning Times.”

  “Yes.” When he’d placed the artifact under the translucent glass, he swore he could still smell smoke.

  “I knew we’d lost some of our people during that time, but—” she traced her finger over the clear glass “—it’s another matter to see hard proof.”

  Were those tears in her eyes? “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  She straightened, blinking furiously. “My feelings pale next to those who suffered. Or who’ve seen what you and Valerian have.”

  He busied himself closing the drawer, and moving the shelves back into place. She saw too damn much.