by Tamara Hogan
He’d handed her the perfect opening, gift-wrapped and tied with a pretty bow. “If there’s no place for secrets, why is there nothing in the Archives about your predecessor, Sigurd?”
When he finally answered, his voice was rough as sandpaper. “Because it hurts.”
He suddenly looked every second of his nine hundred plus years. She couldn’t press him, not now. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he said, sighing. “I didn’t mean to get so melancholy, but I’d like to save Sigurd for another time, if you don’t mind.” His sigh carried the weight of the centuries. He took a sip of wine, then suddenly smiled. “Let’s talk about your attraction to Wyland.”
“Um, I’m not…” The lie froze in her throat. “Okay, yeah,” she said, brazening it out. “He’s easy enough on the eyes.”
His eyebrow cocked up with amusement.
“Okay, he’s gorgeous,” she admitted, “but he’s so…solitary. So closed off, like he doesn’t need anyone.” Except for when they’d kissed. He’d needed her then.
No, not needed, wanted. Two entirely different things.
“There’s a distinct spark between you.”
Valerian’s wise, rheumy eyes invited confidences. “Yeah, but most of the time he treats me like I’m a child.”
“I can see where he might have some issues with your age,” Valerian mused. “And with your profession. And with your independence, and—”
“Gee, let me take some notes.”
“I was going to say, your feminine energy, your joie de vivre. We’ve lived in a staid bachelor household for many, many years. You must forgive us—you must forgive Wyland—if this shift takes us some time to get used to.”
“I don’t think I’ll be staying here long enough for anyone to notice.”
Valerian threw his head back and laughed.
“What?”
“Never mind.” The remains of his smile lingered. “What else would you like to talk about?”
Hell, why not ask? “Does Wyland have a lover?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“He seems so…alone.”
“We, with our vampire longevity, love and lose, love and lose,” he said softly. “It’s a bittersweet experience, and some grow…remote…as a defense mechanism. In addition, making decisions which impact an entire species can be a very heavy load. It takes an extraordinary mate to stand at a Council member’s side. Thankfully, many of my friends have found such partners.”
She nodded. Lukas had Scarlett. Lorin Schlessinger, the Valkyrie Second, had Gabe Lupinsky. Bailey’s relationship with Rafe definitely helped leaven her obsessive focus on work.
“Tell me about your tattoo,” he suddenly asked. “Is that your own handwriting?”
She nodded again, bringing her bare forearm closer to his face.
“‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one,’” he read aloud. “Ah! Mr. Spock. The Wrath of Khan.”
“You’re familiar with Star Trek?”
“Oh, yes.” He shot her a glance. “Kirk or Picard?”
Which captain did she prefer? It was an age-old question between Star Trek fans. “What’s the scenario?” Kirk solved problems with action and swagger. Picard was deliberate and cerebral. They’d both rock in the sack.
Valerian laughed again. “Yes, you’re a wise one.” He ran his crooked finger over the cursive letters etched into her skin. “This is beautiful work. Such crisp lines—and a good reminder for someone in your occupation, I would imagine.”
He understood. “It reminds me that my personal needs and interests aren’t always paramount.”
“Let me show you mine.”
Valerian had a tattoo?
He unzipped his Green Bay Packers warm-up jacket, spread the sides, and lifted his T-shirt hem up to his neck. Though the image was faded, blurred with time, Tia recognized it immediately: a Celtic Tree of Life. The upper portion of the tree was lush and leafy, broad enough to cover his entire chest, and narrowed into a twisted, gnarled trunk on his stomach. Thorny-looking roots spread wide at the base, disappearing below his sweatpants’ elastic waistband. “Wow.”
“When I was younger, I fell in with a group of pagans for a time. They thought me wise, called me a merlin.” Smiling puckishly, he lowered his shirt, then patted the place next to him on the couch. “Come sit here. Let’s work on that headache.”
Rising, she obeyed. “Do you know a secret pagan massage technique?”
“No.” Pulling up his sleeve, he exposed the veins in his wrist.
She recoiled. Did he mean for her to drink from him?
“Yes,” he said, answering her unasked question.
“No. I couldn’t,” she blurted. “You’re still recovering.”
He smiled. “I’m as recovered as someone my age is going to get.”
She couldn’t drag her gaze away from his. “It’s—it’s too much. You’re the freaking Vampire First.” He was offering her the strongest vampire blood on the planet.
“Yes, I am.” Such power in his voice. “And I want you to have some protection.”
“From what?”
“From whatever might come your way,” he said, exasperated. “Come. Come and drink.”
His voice was like a whirlybird in her head, echoing and swirling. She felt her resistance draining away, like the water in the bath she’d taken earlier. “Are you sure?” So many questions embedded in those three simple words: Did he really want her to have access to his memories and emotions, and second-hand access to the memories and emotions of those whose blood he’d ingested? To Thane?
To Wyland?
That he’d offer her such a gift was utterly terrifying.
“Tia. Feed.” He didn’t sound ill or infirm now. It sounded like he’d given her an order.
After a hesitation, she sat beside him on the couch. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted. “As an adult, I mean.” Her mom and dad had vein-fed her when she was young, of course, but bagged blood had been available for her entire life—convenient, always there, like humans carrying their bottles of water. The only time most vampires of her generation drank from the vein was with bondmates or long-term sexual partners.
Feeding during sex was supposed to result in stratospheric orgasms.
She believed it. Hell, she’d felt an erotic zing just watching Wyland feed someone else. What would it be like to feel his body, his fangs, plunging into her? To bite him back, to drink from him, as their bodies rocked and strained together?
Wyland. “Wyland wouldn’t agree with this.”
“Wyland has no choice in the matter.”
“But he does—or should,” she argued. “He’s chosen to share his emotions with you, not with me.”
Approval gleamed in his eyes. “The second-hand effect will be negligible and short-term, but the fact that you’re concerned about such a point makes me proud.” He sighed. “Tia, I want you to have the strength of my blood. Drinking from me, from an older, stronger vampire, will provide you with some tools that might prove useful in the days to come.”
“Such as?”
“It’ll kick-start your ability to thrall, to glamour—and to detect and repel thralls in return.”
The ability to thrall or glamour someone, to influence someone else’s thoughts or actions with one’s mind, was a skill a vampire her age could only dream of. Even the beginnings of that ability usually didn’t manifest until a vampire reached the century mark. “You think I might need such a tool?”
“With all the strange goings-on, how could it hurt?” He glanced at her tattoo, then met her eyes again. “I trust you’ll use your skills wisely.”
He extended his wrist.
After a pause, she took it. And drank.
Chapter Seven
Wyland loosened his tie as he trudged from the attached garage to the kitchen, smelling the remnants of the Beef Bourguignon Thane must have served for Last Meal. If he looked in the refrigerator, he knew he�
�d find succulent leftovers, neatly packaged and ready to heat in the microwave, but he really didn’t have the energy to deal with food. The hospital resident he’d been working with for long, long hours had said it best: What a complete and utter shit-show of a day.
A solar flare, unnoticed and of little concern to most humans, had sent dozens of vampires to the ER with UV burns. Then, Mila Stanton had wobbled into the ER, so anemic that she’d needed an immediate transfusion.
He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. Mila’s strain of vampire hemolytic anemia was a stubborn one, and the girl herself even more so. The stubbornness was a valuable trait—rather, it would be, once she started fighting with him rather than against him.
He went to the living room, stopping at the window overlooking the sprawling front lawn. It was freshly mowed, the pattern ballpark-sharp, and the gas-powered riding mower droned on the north side of the house. Out front, another gardener tended the hostas and spiky green arborvitae. Over near the tree line, one of the security guards did morning rounds.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sun as it beat through the UV-filtering windows. What astounding technology Elliott had invented. Maybe, at some point, the newness of the experience would wear off—he might even come to find the sun’s heat annoying—but not yet. But on the negative side of the equation, their cars were fitted with the windows as well. He couldn’t use the sun as an excuse to stay at the hospital instead of come home to their inconvenient houseguest.
Though he hadn’t seen Tia for several days, her presence was unmistakable. He came across her possessions in unexpected places, heard her giggles floating through the walls. The scent of lilacs had taken up permanent residence upstairs. Her presence was a mischievous ghost, haunting him for the hell of it—and unfortunately, she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Chico had informed him that, so far, the lab had come up empty on the note Tia had found stapled to the snake. Printed in Times New Roman on a generic scrap of printer paper, the note was as untraceable as they came.
And speaking of Times New Roman…more work waited upstairs.
As he strode toward the stairway, he heard the distant twinkle of Tia’s laughter. Valerian’s lower-toned guffaw immediately followed. They were probably watching television again. He sighed, but couldn’t begrudge Val the company. Val hadn’t needed supplemental oxygen in days, and his appetite was improving. Thane reported that Val and Tia spent a lot of time camped out in Val’s sitting room, immersing themselves in Tia’s inexhaustible collection of movies and TV shows.
Another peal of laughter sailed down the stairs. What the hell were they watching?
Chirp chirp chirp.
And damn it, where was that where was that infernal noise coming from? Had a grasshopper somehow gotten into the house?
He skimmed the floor, the rugs, the pile of battered, brown leather lying on the credenza at the foot of the stairs.
Chirp chirp chirp.
Yes. The sound was coming from Tia’s purse.
With a glance up the stairs, he went to the credenza and nudged the already-gaping purse open. It was a tumble of feminine detritus, with lipsticks, makeup, pens, and scraps of paper all elbowing for space. A black Moleskine notebook. A disposable lighter. A pocket-sized version of the human Bill of Rights. A small, plastic jar of a noxious-looking green paste, something called “Manic Panic.” A tube of VampScreen lay next to her cell phone.
Ah, the phone. The face-up display was littered with text messages, including the one Chadden had just sent, asking if she wanted to meet him at Underbelly tonight.
Beneath the phone was a yellow plastic device. He carefully picked up the stun gun, felt its solid weight in his hand. The weapon was heavier than it looked, with a clever cartridge that propelled the hooks—
The cell phone suddenly rang, a raucous guitar and a man’s rock and roll wail. The ring tone sounded like someone was squeezing the poor git’s testicles in a vice.
“I’ll be right back,” he heard Tia say upstairs.
He dropped the stun gun back in her purse, closed the bag with a jerk, and moved away from the credenza. When Tia appeared at the top of the stairs, he was setting his briefcase on the bar, as if he’d just walked in.
“Oh, hey.” Her breasts bounced as she trotted down the stairs. “I thought I heard my phone.”
His heart nearly stopped at what she was—what she wasn’t—wearing. Tia might call the camisole and boxer shorts pajamas, but he called them trouble. “Is that what that infernal racket is?” He winced as the phone—the man—shrieked again.
“Mr. Rose gets your attention, doesn’t he?” she said with a grin. Pawing through the purse, she snatched up the phone and punched a button, cutting the man off in mid-wail. “Hello? Hello? Damn.” Pulling the phone away from her ear, she scowled at the screen, then cursed under her breath. “No message. Very cagey, Commander Lupinsky, returning my call after the sun’s up, when most vampires are asleep.” She tossed the phone back into the purse, her disgust clear.
Why was Gideon calling her at all?
She stalked behind the bar and opened the refrigerator. When she stood upright again, she held a can of Diet Mountain Dew—an unnatural beverage that, thanks to Thane, was now stocked in every refrigerator in the house. “Do you know how much acid is in that can? Its pH level is off the charts.”
“Yes, Dad. My dentist reminds me every time I sit in her chair.” With that, she opened the can with a pneumatic hiss, and slurped with great relish.
His thoughts were anything but fatherly. He tried to keep his eyes off her mouth, but didn’t know where he should focus instead. Her bare arms and shoulders? Her gloriously unbound breasts? Her curvy hips and long legs, with their obnoxious turquoise toenails? Why did everything seem so much more vivid when she walked into a room? He cleared his throat. “Speaking of daylight, I thought I’d find you and Valerian in bed already.”
One eyebrow rose. “Together?”
“Of course not,” he stammered. Heat rose from beneath his collar. “I meant asleep. In your own beds. Um, separately.”
The little brat was grinning behind the can.
She made him feel like a foot-shuffling, pock-faced youth. “The sun came up hours ago,” he said. “I thought you’d both be asleep.”
“Valerian wanted to finish watching El Vampiro, but he’s getting ready for bed now. I have a little bit of work to finish, and then I have a hot date with a bathtub.”
El Vampiro? He wasn’t even going to ask. He joined her behind the bar, pulling a bottle of Perrier and a bag of blood out of the refrigerator. It would hypocritical of him to advise her to get some sleep when he had no intention of sleeping himself. In this, they seemed to be kindred spirits.
Her gaze roved over his loosened tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves. “You look beat,” she murmured. “How was your day?”
Something inside him jolted at the homey, ordinary question no woman had ever asked. “It was…busy.”
“The solar flare?”
He nodded, wincing slightly as his neck muscles protested. “I spent more time in the ER than I’d planned.”
She pointed to one of the tall leather barstools. “Why don’t you take a load off?”
He was too tired to fight with her. So he sat, and watched, as she mixed and served him a bloody Perrier. “Thank you.” He lifted the glass and took a sip. Cool bubbles danced on his tongue, and iron-rich hemoglobin hummed into his system. Somehow, she’d gauged his blood needs precisely. “This is perfect, thank you—Tia?” The space where she’d just been standing was empty.
“Relax,” she murmured from behind him. Before he could prepare himself, her hands were on his shoulders, working his stiff muscles through the wilted fabric of his shirt. “Jeez, your neck is knottier than a tree trunk.”
How was he supposed to relax when her hands were finally on him, stroking with such care and confidence? When she pressed her thumb where the trapezius joined with his deltoid, a groan of pain-laced pleasure
escaped.
“This can’t be helping.” She pulled the black elastic band at the nape of his neck, spilling his hair over his shoulders.
The relief was immediate, as was the stirring below his belt. Something clicked against the bar—she’d taken off her ring—and then she really went to work, threading her fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp with the fingers of both hands. When she pressed her thumbs into the tense bundle of muscles at the base of his neck, he couldn’t quite bite back a sigh. “You’ve had training,” he noted.
“I like taking classes, learning new things.”
That might explain her odd efficiency mixing his drink. “A very fine habit.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said dryly.
“You don’t care whether I approve or not.”
“See how well we’re getting to know each other? Lean forward, rest your forehead on your arms,” she murmured. Her soft breath fluttered against his hair, against his neck. “Just relax…”
Something in her voice made him obey. When was the last time he’d been touched like this? The last time he’d allowed it? Time drifted, her rhythmic touches and strokes lulling him into a pleasant haze…until she grazed his neck with her lips.
He shot upright in the chair as his fangs shoved down. “Enough.” Maybe if he said it out loud, his body would get the message, because his body wanted blood—her blood—in the most elemental way. His teeth and cock throbbed with each beat of his heart.
“Wyland,” she whispered. Just his name, slipping through her lips.
He twisted the chair around, thinking he’d stand, that he’d leave—which was a big mistake, because now that he faced her, he could see her beautiful breasts, see her hard, saucy nipples jutting from behind the fabric of her camisole. See the tips of her fangs pressed against her plump lower lip.
The air sizzled as they stared at each other. He slipped off the barstool, putting his feet on solid ground.
She looked down, to the stingy inches separating the tips of his dress shoes from her bare feet. Meeting his gaze again, she moved closer. Cocked her brow in challenge.
