Enthrall Me (Underbelly Chronicles Book 4)

by Tamara Hogan

  “And his last entries? Any information about why Sigurd committed suicide?” she asked gently.

  A cheek muscle ticked as he turned to the last written page of the journal. “Unfortunately, no.”

  She looked at the yellowed page and recoiled. Sigurd’s last journal entry consisted of a single, autobiographical hash mark, and a rusty spray of dried blood.

  Wyland removed the gloves and then his glasses. Setting both on the legal pad, he rubbed his eyes.

  “Let’s take a break,” she said, rising from her chair with a stretch. His cheekbones were too prominent for her liking. “I need some blood, and if I sit here any longer, my ass is going to sprout roots.”

  He glanced at her backside, bemused. “We wouldn’t want that.” As he stood, he tipped his head from side to side, trying to loosen stiff muscles. Who knew that reading for hours on end could be so hard on the body? As they walked to the kitchen, she glanced at the wall clock. Maybe she could talk him into going home, taking a long, hot shower together, and crawling into bed for a while. Lyudmila and Stanton’s party started at midnight, and if she didn’t take a nap first, she’d fall asleep in the canapes. Earlier, Wyland had asked if she’d be ready to leave by 11:00 p.m., giving them an hour to drive to Lyudmila and Stanton’s Lake Minnetonka home.

  Did he realize the conclusions the other guests would draw when they arrived at the party together? Did he care?

  When they got to the kitchen, Wyland headed to the sink to wash his hands. That, too, was probably second nature. “Anna Mae called today,” he said over the sound of running water. “She’s finally done with Sigurd’s trunk.”

  She joined him at the sink. “You’re the one who insisted we bring it to Sebastiani Labs in the first place.” After she’d discovered the skull, Wyland had quickly closed the trunk, and in what he’d described to Val and Thane as an abundance of caution, he’d asked Dr. Anna Mae Whitman to meet him at Sebastiani Labs’ bio-hazard facility. During the long drive to the Sebastiani Labs campus in Chanhassen, Wyland had glanced at her far too frequently, as if reassuring himself that she hadn’t dropped dead in the passenger seat.

  Sebastiani Labs had been a revelation—what she’d seen of it, at any rate. Instead of using the main entrance, Wyland had driven around to the back of the building, pausing to speak at a machine that looked like one you’d find at a fast food drive-thru. After a short conversation, the loading dock door opened its giant maw. They’d pulled in, waited for the door to close behind them, and then driven down, down, finally stopping in a loading dock adjacent to a high-tech lab that reminded her of Iron Man’s subterranean lair. And there, Dr. Whitman, a tiny, terrifying woman with more than a hint of bayou in her voice, had matter-of-factly unpacked Sigurd’s trunk under a bio-hazard containment hood, a process Tia had recorded for posterity. In addition to Sigurd’s journals and skull, the young, grieving Valerian had also packed Sigurd’s robes, some linens, an ancient set of tools, and some writing implements. After declaring the items free of airborne toxins, Wyland and Dr. Whitman had debated about what should happen next. Wyland wanted to take the trunk and its contents back to Val, but Dr. Whitman had urged further tests.

  Dr. Whitman had won. They’d left Sebastiani Labs with only the journals in their possession.

  “She took a sample from the skull, and some blood off the knife,” Wyland said, stepping back from the sink to dry his hands. “She’ll sequence Sigurd’s DNA for the Archives, and assess the chemical composition of the blood.”

  Chemical composition? Sigurd hadn’t been poisoned; he’d committed suicide. “Why do that?”

  “Anna Mae is an expert on anthropocentric environmental impact.”

  “Anthropo what?”

  “Anthropocentric.” He walked over to the refrigerator. “The study of humans’ impact on the planet during the time they’ve been the dominant species. Some scientists theorize that modern humans’ impact on Earth’s natural systems is so visible, and so significant, that the planet has entered a sixth geological epoch called the Anthropocentric.”

  “Hmm.”

  He paused at the refrigerator door. “Within my own lifetime, we’ve gone from four-legged horsepower to nuclear energy, from mud huts to steel high-rises, from villages to megacities. There were fewer than a billion people on the planet when I was born, and now there are over seven billion.”

  “We’re an industrious species, that’s for sure.”

  “It leaves a mark.”

  She blinked at his vehemence.

  “New research indicates that today’s babies are born already carrying traces of hundreds of industrial chemicals and pollutants.” Opening the refrigerator, he retrieved two bags of blood. “Sorry about the soapbox, but humanity has the dubious distinction of being the first Earth species ‘evolved’ enough to engineer its own bloody extinction.”

  “You, Val, and Thane—older vampires—definitely have a unique perspective on what’s short term versus long term.”

  “And given we can’t reveal our existence to humanity, we can’t share our first-hand observations with anyone who isn’t part of our culture.” Wyland handed her one of the bags. “Sometimes I think we should reconsider. We live here, too. We have a vested interest in keeping the planet habitable…at least until we find a way to leave it again.” He tightened his lips. “But that’s a discussion for another day. I was willing to give Anna Mae time to get her samples, but I really want to get that skull back for Val.”

  As far as she was concerned, Dr. Whitman could keep the creepy, yellowed skull that had stared up at her with its empty eye sockets, but Wyland was right—Val’s desire to see and touch Sigurd’s things was the thing that had started this whole extravaganza. “We could pick the trunk up on our way home from the party tonight.”

  “We’ll be on the right side of town.” Wyland lifted the bag of blood to his mouth, then hesitated. “You’re right, you know. I’m am old.”

  “What? I didn’t say—”

  “You said ‘older vampires’, lumping me in with Val and Thane. I’m too old for you, Tia.”

  A merry laugh escaped as she skimmed his frame. “Yeah, right.” The man was in his prime, sexually and otherwise. But…he wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t joking. “Are you serious? Sure, you’re a little tired right now, we both are, but—”

  “You can’t deny the three hundred years between us.”

  “I don’t deny them in the slightest, but I see them as a positive, not a negative. And for the record, Val’s pretty damn hot.”

  He smiled, but then dropped his gaze to the bag of blood he held, studying the label as if it fascinated him. “Sometimes I feel…” His eyes were unfathomable, with an expression she’d seen only once before: on Valerian’s face as he mentally detached from the here and now, and traveled back into memory.

  Alone.

  She took the blood from his hand and set it on the countertop. “Tell me. How do you feel?”

  “Like a man in a place out of time.”

  She wrapped her arms around his waist, tethering him. “All I know is that you’re the man I need, in the here and now.” She pressed a gentle kiss to his beard-roughened jawline. “Let’s go home.”

  When he looked down at her, the immortal ennui in his eyes was gone. “Are you tired?”

  “Yes. Despite your so-called advanced years, I’m the one who needs a nap.” But before falling asleep, she’d drag him into bed and let him rock her world. He’d never question her attraction, or his potency, again.

  He looped an arm around her waist, examining her face in the harsh fluorescent light. “Your bruises are nearly healed.”

  Frequent infusions of his blood had faded them to nearly nothing, but no amount of makeup on Earth would hide the scar at her temple. “I’ll have to figure out how to explain this at the party tonight.”

  “The truth won’t suffice?” They left the kitchen, turning off lights as they went. “You tripped and fell getting out of your car. There’s no
need to discuss the circumstances.”

  She considered. “That’ll work.”

  Wyland closed the journals so the weight of the pages wouldn’t pull at the ancient bindings. “I wish we could stay home tonight,” he muttered, pocketing his reading glasses. “I’d rather treat virulent pneumonic plague than go to this party.”

  “Why?” Did he not want to be seen with her in public after all?

  “Dealing with Lyudmila can be rather…labor-intensive.”

  “That’s an understatement.” She flicked off the lights next to the door, then wound her arm through the crook of his elbow as he opened the door to the stairwell. “As our leader, you have to be diplomatic. But she has to be nice to me.”

  “Why?”

  She grinned. “Lyudmila wants a nice write-up about the party. ILQ’s gossip page is its most-read feature.”

  “Aren’t you the political mover and shaker?”

  “Of a sort.”

  They entered the garage, got into Wyland’s sexy car, and opened the garage door. As they backed out into the morning sun, something caught her eye.

  “What?”

  She stared toward the woods. “I thought I saw something.”

  “Nick mentioned a stray dog hanging around recently.”

  Or maybe she was just being paranoid. She took a second look, but saw nothing but swaying grass. As she consigned irresponsible pet owners to the seventh circle of hell, they headed home.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wyland accepted a flute of straw-colored champagne from his host. “Thank you.” He took a sip, his eyes narrowing as tiny, tart bubbles exploded on his tongue. “Very nice. Valerian will regret not sampling this vintage.”

  “I’ll send a bottle home with you,” Stanton said magnanimously. “How is Valerian’s health?”

  “Much improved.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Despite their long business relationship, Stanton knew better than to ask for details. ”Please send him my regards.”

  Across the room, Tia worked the room like a pro, floating from group to group like a modern Cinderella in her exquisite purple gown and heels. As she laughed and touched Jack’s tuxedo-clad forearm, he tried not to stare at her exposed back, at the subtle flex of muscle. Her spine was a plumb line that his eyes helplessly followed, until it disappeared behind fabric that draped well below her waistline.

  What undergarment could she possibly be wearing?

  “Wyland?”

  He fought his attention back to Stanton. “Fine turnout tonight.”

  Stanton skimmed the crowd, no doubt counting social currency. The absence of three Council members—Valerian, Lukas, and Scarlett—no doubt rankled, but if anything was certain in Lyudmila and Stanton’s world, it was that there would always be another party. They entertained frequently enough, and on a large enough scale, that their home had its own ballroom. Parquet floors gleamed, chandeliers threw warm, flattering light, and the liquor and champagne flowed. A string quartet played in the corner, softly accompanying the murmur of dozens of intimate conversations. Tuxedo-clad servers circulated with hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, and black-suited security guards nearly outnumbered the wait staff. Krispin Woolf had arrived with his own security team, as had Elliott Sebastiani. Despite the guards, Jack hadn’t moved from the President’s side since they’d arrived.

  “Lyudmila is the consummate hostess, and my Mila is certainly following in her footsteps,” Stanton said. “It’s a fine quality to have in one’s mate.”

  Wyland could think of two dozen qualities he’d desire in a mate more than the ability to plan a party, but he lifted his glass in a toast. “To Lyudmila.”

  “To Lyudmila.”

  As they sipped champagne, Tia moved on, greeting her parents. Standing behind the Quinns, Lyudmila, resplendent in a floor-skimming gown and dripping with diamonds, spoke with her daughter. Mila looked healthy enough, but having watched Tia wield a makeup brush like a magician’s wand earlier that evening, he knew looks could be deceiving. Tia’s bruises were now invisible, and the tiny bump on her nose noticeable only if you knew it hadn’t previously been there, but there was no disguising the stitches at her temple.

  Tia turned her head toward him and smiled. Then, while talking with her parents, she filled his head with torrid mental images. Sexual images, incendiary images. Images that answered his question about her undergarments.

  She wasn’t wearing a damn thing under that gown.

  He shifted uncomfortably. How many years had it been since he’d tried to control an erection while wearing formalwear?

  Tia’s sensual, knowing laughter echoed in his head.

  “I noticed you and Tia Quinn arrived together tonight,” Stanton said, letting the statement hang—a conversational technique Wyland recognized because he frequently used it himself.

  “Yes.” Where was Stanton going with this? And why was Chadden, who now stood next to Tia, touching her bare back with such easy familiarity?

  You know why. They’d been lovers, you dolt.

  His fangs gave a warning tingle. Tia glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised.

  He managed a tight smile, and turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

  “I’d heard Ms. Quinn recently moved to your side of town,” Stanton continued. “How nice that you arranged transportation for tonight.”

  Did Stanton really think he and Tia had arrived together because of a polite carpooling arrangement? Did the man not have eyes in his head? “Ms. Quinn and I are romantically involved.”

  “Ah.” Somehow, Stanton managed to stretch the word out to several suggestive syllables. “I can’t say I blame you. She’s a delicious morsel.” A knowing expression crossed his face. “The young ones can be so…creative.”

  His hands formed fists. “Take care with your words, Stanton.” The man had no clue how close he was to being laid out flat, right on his own ballroom floor.

  Or maybe he did, because Stanton took a hasty step back, bowing his head. “My apologies, Second. We’re both men of the world, and…” He swallowed, glancing at the fangs Wyland didn’t bother to hide. “I must be honest. I’d hoped to suggest a match between you and my daughter.”

  “Mila?” Surprise made him recoil.

  Stanton shrugged. “Her physique may not be to your liking, but she’s healthy, and her bloodline is impeccable. After giving you an heir and a spare, you’d each be free to—” he glanced over at Tia “—seek your own amusements.” Stanton’s gaze lingered on Tia’s sweet, rounded bottom, as if assessing what her curves would feel like under his hands.

  Lingered too long.

  An inarticulate growl leaped from his throat. Party sounds receded, and his pulse pounded like a war drum.

  He tasted blood.

  Across the room, Tia’s head turned. She separated herself from the group and started toward him.

  Toward them.

  Wyland took a deliberate step backward. Stanton would not get an opportunity to speak to her, much less shake her hand, kiss her cheeks, or breathe the same bloody air. “Hear me, Stanton. You’ll not barter your daughter like a breeding sow.” He held up his hand when it appeared the man might dare interrupt. “If I get the slightest wind that Mila has less than full agency in her choice of dates, partners, or mates, we will have…words.”

  Stanton paled, and extended a placating hand. “Wyland—”

  Turning on his heel, he walked away.

  Walked toward Tia.

  They met in the middle of the floor. Though her face was carefully neutral, concern and comfort warmed him like sunlight, an analgesic seeping into all his jagged cracks. He smelled lilacs, her personal flower garden.

  “How about some fresh air?” Taking him by the elbow, she led him to the French doors at the far end of the ballroom, onto the wide balcony overlooking the lake. She took a quick look around. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves.”

  Lake Minnetonka was an inky black pool, and moonligh
t gilded the birch trees with delicate silver filigree. Frogs croaked, crickets chirped, and fireflies danced near the cattails. Across the bay, the neighbors enjoyed a blazing fire. Tia led him to the railing, took the champagne flute from his hand, and sipped.

  For long minutes, they simply stood there, leaning against the rail, drinking in the humid night air. And gradually, eventually, his fangs receded and the tension leached away. Tia must have interpreted his sigh as some sort of sign, because she slipped her arm around his waist. He turned, pulling her into an embrace. Despite the gown’s distinct lack of coverage, she was warm. Yards of silk skirt whispered against his legs. “Thank you,” he murmured against her lips. She hadn’t tried to soothe him, hadn’t murmured platitudes. Instead, she’d let him settle in his own time, and on his own terms.

  Her perception was an exquisite gift, one he wanted to give in return.

  “I knew you were agitated, but I didn’t know why.” Her kittenish tongue lapped at the corner of his mouth. “You’re bleeding.”

  He reached up. Damn it, blood had dripped down to his chin. “Stanton…angered me.”

  “I guess so. Your poor inner lip.” She swirled her tongue against the bite, sighed, then pulled away. “I thought you two went way back. Didn’t he and Lyudmila move here from England about the same time you did?”

  “Soon after.” Which, now that she mentioned it, probably explained Stanton’s ‘heir and a spare’ comment. Stanton had lived the life of an English aristocrat for centuries, but now, after earning untold riches here in America, it seemed his ambitions had taken a political turn. To suggest that Mila become his bondmate was preposterous.

  “You’re tightening up again.”

  He made a conscious effort to relax. “Stanton and I are business colleagues, not friends.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, because the way he treats his wife and daughter makes me want to smack that cheesy Rhett Butler mustache right off his face.”