The sounds of Andre and Zoey’s happiness thudded overhead—just one of the many ways his vampire-sharp hearing was a nuisance. He queued up some classical music on his computer. Booming symphonies and dramatic violin sonatas were perfect for dampening the sounds of their love.
He powered up his computer and found the email he was looking for—a shipping notice from the bottle supplier. The shipment had left Santa Rosa already. Getting Blood Vine bottled immediately was his number one priority. Beneath the house, in the wine cellar, barrels and barrels waited. And all around America, vampires waited too, slowly wasting away. Only last week, Kos had been aged and weak. But the Blood Vine had cured him, had even made him strong enough to fly. And he’d played the hero, taking Lena in his arms—
The door to his office swung open, startling him. Andre stood there, freshly showered and radiant with health.
Kos turned off his music. “Good morning.”
“Yes, good morning.” Andre’s smile spread the width of his face.
It was very much worth noisy mornings to see his father happy. “What’s in the box?”
“The wine labels have arrived already.” Andre set the small cardboard box on Kos’s desk and ripped it open. “Zoey did a fine job on these.”
Kos examined the roll of labels, branded with the efforts of Zoey’s marketing campaign for Blood Vine. Metallic red letters spelled the wine’s name, overlying the looping Glagolitic letters of the Croatian text on ivory paper. The words sent a shiver of nostalgia up Kos’s spine. Just letters and words, and yet, somehow, they took him home to Šolta. Surely the labels would speak to the other Croatian refugees too, no matter where the vampires had hidden themselves after fleeing the homeland, driven out by Hunters so long ago.
“The bottles will be here any minute,” Kos said.
Reaching across the desk, Andre grazed his knuckles across Kos’s arm in a playful, fatherly assault. “Soon, all our old friends will be cured.”
Since Andre had begun drinking Blood Vine, the lines around his green eyes had vanished and his sweater had pulled tight across his chest, thick with new muscle. Somehow, the wine restored their strength, as if they’d returned to the land of their making and been cured of the wasting disease caused by their forced exile.
Andre wove around Kos’s desk. At the window, he shielded his eyes from the bright sun and peered out. It was the same gesture Kos repeated a thousand times a day, and he went to Andre’s side. The low hills in front of the estate were golden with the dry grasses of late summer. On the opposite side of the highway, the boulder on the peak of the tallest hill was vacant. No Hunter lookout there for more than a week.
“Every time I hear a door slam, I’m convinced they’re back with their rocket launcher,” Kos said.
“I’m rather jumpy myself. I would feel better if I could see the damn shield. Every five minutes I look out the window and wonder if it is still functioning.”
“It’s hard to believe that skinny Trys has to eat thousands of calories to fuel her magical energy for the shield. She likes some fancy chocolate from London, but she’s settled for ice cream—gallons and gallons of it.”
“Bel told me as much. I understand absolutely nothing of her witchcraft, but chocolate seems an absurd fuel. I never tasted the stuff,” Andre said. “Smells decent, though.”
“It is. Better than decent, if I recall.” Kos wet the roof of his mouth with his memory of the delectable food, a memory more than a century old.
A barely audible scuff alerted him to Zoey’s entrance. Freshly showered and put together, she entered the room on newly light feet. She’d adjusted with ease to becoming a vampire and already moved with supernatural grace—silent and fast.
She held up her phone, her posture unusually rigid and her knuckles white where her fingers curled around the edges. “RSVPs are coming in for the Blood Vine launch party. All the Sonoma County locals are coming, and a few of my contacts in San Francisco. Even some folks from the national wine magazines.”
“Really?” Kos asked. “That’s great.”
Andre watched her with the most idiotic look on his face, like she deserved the Nobel Peace Prize for throwing a damn party.
“Thanks,” she said. “But there’s something else.” Fangs retracted, she bit her lower lip, as she had so often as a human.
“What is it?” Andre asked, no doubt already clued into her anxiety through their blood bond.
“I got an email from a person named Dana through the website.”
Andre’s eyes lit up. “Dana Zulim?”
“That’s right.” She handed him her phone. “She says her husband Teodor died last month of the wasting disease.”
The phone trembled in Andre’s hand. “Just one month too late.”
“She heard about Blood Vine because her American son owns a wine store. She didn’t say where, obviously. That’s the good news—the PR is working.” Zoey’s voice was thin, forcing the point.
Kos poured them three glasses of Blood Vine from a decanter on his file cabinet.
“To Teodor.” He raised his glass.
“To the homeland,” Andre said and took a sip.
Zoey lifted her glass in silence. She took a sip and then said, “Tell me what happens, what actually happens, when someone dies of the wasting disease.”
“To a human, it would look like normal aging.” Andre set down his glass and moved his hands as he spoke, as if to illustrate his words. “A thin, frail vampire, wrinkled and desiccated because he cannot take enough nourishment from the blood he drinks.” His hands came to rest on his hips. “The vampire experiences the wasting as a constantly cold, aching hunger and fatigue. Blood satisfies for only a short time.”
“This is what you felt, before Blood Vine?” she asked, looking first at Kos, then Andre.
Kos nodded in time with his father.
“Was Teodor your friend?”
“Yes,” Andre replied. He picked up his glass and stared into it, twirling the stem in between his palms. “Teo was quiet. Rather retiring for a vampire. But a good neighbor, reliable.”
“He made piss-poor wine, though,” Kos said.
Andre laughed at their old joke from the good old days. The sound heartened Kos. It was his job to keep his family laughing in hard times. Hunters may prevent them from returning to the homeland, but they had not forgotten their home.
Zoey finished her glass in one swallow and slammed it on Kos’s desk. “I don’t want anyone else to die. We will do our damnedest to get Blood Vine into the hands of all the refugees.”
“Yes, we will.” Kos tipped back his glass.
Blood Vine was his priority—bottled, delivered, shipped far and wide, with marketing targeted at all the Croatian vampires. Perhaps they could distribute it to all displaced vampires, if they had enough time. But the Hunters would be back any day, attempting to drive them away from Kaštel, and the cure, once and for all. They must do everything they could to save their old friends first.
“Back to work, then.” Zoey slid her phone into her pocket before heading to the door.
When she was gone, Andre asked, “Any luck finding Lena a job?”
“None.” Kos sat on the edge of his desk and rolled his shoulders.
“What’s the hold up?”
“I don’t know. The ad’s been online for five days with no response.”
“Online.” Andre snorted. “In the old days we did these things by word of mouth.”
“Well, since all the vampires are in hiding, word of mouth doesn’t work anymore. Don’t worry. It’s the same thing, and I used the same old code words.”
He brought the ad up on his computer and read it aloud. “Female, twenty-six, seeking live-in position as cook in an established household. Trained at the California Culinary Institute. Willing and able to work all hours. Excellent references. Experience with special diets.” That part made him chuckle every time. Special diets was part of the vampire code, but today’s unknowing reader would assume it meant veg
an, or gluten-free, or one of those other trends.
“No wonder no one is interested.”
“What do you mean?”
“Vampires do not care if she is an excellent cook. You have left out the most important part—she is beautiful.”
Of course he was right. Sex and feeding went hand in hand; prospective employers would want to know just how delicious Lena was. “You think I should mention she’s gorgeous?” It made Kos feel like a pimp to advertise her beauty, even though Lena wanted to leave Kaštel above all else.
“Yes. That should help. Why not say so in the first place?”
“She helped me write the ad. She’s modest.”
“She did not look very modest stripped down to her panties in my room last week.”
Kos raised his voice, surprising himself with a near shout. “Andre, you drove her crazy for years. She came here expecting to serve you in every way. And then Zoey showed up and you were clearly falling for her. She was desperate.”
“I never promised her anything.”
“That’s how households work.”
“That is how they used to work. This is the twenty-first century. She is a professional, she is paid to cook and give me her blood. She is not entitled to get fucked.” Andre wiped his hands down his face then pinched the bridge of his nose. “That is all she needs—a good fuck. You should give it to her, make her happy.” Before he finished his sentence, Andre turned toward the door sniffing the air. “Someone is coming.”
“Someone’s already here,” Lena said, pushing the door open. Her mouth was pinched, her eyes narrowed. Krist, she was light on her feet; it was damn near impossible to sneak up on a vampire.
Andre’s face twisted, his lips pressing into a thin grimace. He could be insensitive, but he wasn’t intentionally cruel. “Lena—”
“Save it. I’m leaving, so there’s no need to pretend we like each other.” Her dark eyes shimmered with unshed emotions, but she stood tall and spoke with confidence, once again proving tougher than Kos expected.
He wanted to fold her in his arms, but he settled for apologizing on Andre’s behalf. “Lena, please. He didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter Kos. Just find me a job and get me out of here as fast as you can.”
When she’d closed the door behind her, Kos shook his head. “She has every reason to think you’re an asshole.”
Andre shrugged. “Let us hope your ad works, then. She will be happier away from me. And we have far greater concerns.”
Kos went to his computer where the ad for Lena was still displayed. To the existing text he added, Exquisitely beautiful. Contact current employer for more information. With the click of a button, he re-listed the ad.
With the windows rolled down and an early morning breeze blowing through the cab of his pickup, Leo Caroli waited outside California Bottle and Container for the delivery truck. Man-sized fennel weeds grew in the cracks of the sidewalks, making the morning smell just like his grandma’s homemade sweet Italian sausage. Of all the Hunter clans, the Italians ate the best.
In the sprawling outskirts of Santa Rosa, the streets were nearly silent before seven a.m. when the trucks went out for delivery. Crickets chirped, and the highway droned in the distance. Inside the warehouse, a forklift groaned and wheezed, and men shouted instructions about which pallets went where.
His pistol was loaded, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. After all, a delivery truck full of empty wine bottles wasn’t exactly an armored car. It was just full of something the vampires wanted, and so Leo wanted to prevent them from getting it. When the eighteen-wheeler pulled away from the dock, Leo’s pickup crawled out of its parking place.
Between the warehouse and the highway, he’d scouted several ideal spots for a hijacking. He got lucky. In the very first stretch of straight and narrow, there wasn’t a car to be seen. He gunned the Toyota’s reluctant engine and passed the big rig. Then he came to a complete, road-blocking stop in the middle of the lanes. He vaulted out and opened the hood of the truck, hunching over the engine.
The eighteen-wheeler screeched, grunted and finally ground to a halt. “What the hell was that?” the truck driver shouted from his window. “Cut me off and then stall out in the middle of the road!”
“I know, man. Sorry. It was a lousy move. Give me a hand steering, and I’ll push it onto the shoulder, out of your way.”
Suspicious, the driver hesitated. Leo had dressed his unintimidating five-foot-eight self in boring wrinkle-free khakis and a polo shirt. He didn’t look like a carjacker. And, the driver’s cargo was inexpensive, if important enough for Marasović to order on rush. Just as Leo had calculated he would, the driver climbed out of the rig and hurried toward the driver’s door of the pickup, ready to be on his way. Leo slammed the hood closed. When the driver sat down and put his hands on the wheel, Leo pulled out his handgun. His palm sweat around the grip, and he reminded himself that he was a good shot, thanks to endless target practice with the other Hunter initiates last month. Turned out, he’d learned one thing of use in that bunk operation against Andre Marasović.
Ethan Bennett was stupid to call off the Hunt. Leo wasn’t going to sit on his hands while Bennett jerked off over some ancient artifacts. Maybe he was little, and was no expert in weapons or torture, but Leo did have an area of expertise. He could make the Internet do anything he wanted. He’d hacked into all the email at the Kaštel winery, where he’d seen confirmation about the shipment of bottles. He hadn’t found his way through that shield or anything, but he could be a major nuisance, and make damn sure Marasović could not accomplish anything.
“Slide over,” Leo said to the truck driver, remembering to turn off the safety before he brandished it.
The man’s eyes grew wide and watery. He began to shake. “Hey. Just take the truck, kid. Leave me alone.”
“Can’t. And I’m not a kid.” Leo waved his gun, motioning for the driver to move over. He felt sorry for the guy, but he couldn’t drive a manual transmission, and he sure as hell didn’t know how to handle all the gears on a big rig.
“Please. I’ve got a wife, and a baby.” The driver scrambled across the bench to get away from Leo.
“Listen. I’m not going to hurt you. I just need the bottles.” Or, more precisely, needed Marasović not to have them.
With his gun aimed at the driver, Leo drove the Toyota into the tall grass alongside the road. Then he forced the driver back into the cab of his eighteen-wheeler, and gave him directions to the empty garage waiting for them.
Ten minutes later, he locked the driver into the trailer with water, some power bars, and a bucket. Now Leo had two hundred cases of empty wine bottles, a hostage, and a lot of time on his hands.
He opened up his laptop to see what else he could learn about the Kaštel Estate. The email that popped up on his screen was interesting. An advertisement for a cook seeking employment. Marasović’s cook was the blonde that the initiates had called a swimsuit model. If another vampire hired her, Leo might just learn the location of another household.
Chapter 4
ETHAN BENNETT EMERGED from the subway in Morningside Heights to search for a cup of coffee. A glance at his watch showed ten minutes to spare before his appointment with Professor Gwen Evans at Columbia University. He found a café that pressed him a shot of espresso with perfect crema on top, and he had just enough time to savor it, watching the last of the morning’s commuters bustle past. Ethan loved Manhattan, the whole East Coast really.
Once he exterminated the Marasović vampires and their household, he would return home to lead the Hunters from Boston, with Zoey Porter at his side. His stomach flopped, pushing espresso back up his throat. He didn’t mind the burn in his esophagus. In fact, he marveled at Zoey’s ability to elicit feelings in him—an anxious excitement he’d never experienced before.
He didn’t care that she was being fed upon and fucked by his enemy. It would have repulsed him, if he were a normal Hunter. But to him, only t
wo things mattered. He wanted to control the ragtag army of Hunters around the world, and he wanted Zoey—his beautiful, broken, ice-cold Zoey—the only woman who stirred his abyss of a heart.
Ethan set down the demitasse. It was time to find this Gwen Evans, expert on ancient Britain’s culture and language. She was the only academic remaining alive who knew about his book. He’d shot one, poisoned the other, and he would eventually kill Evans too. But first he would find out if she had discovered anything of value in the book—or codex, as the ivory tower types called it.
He found her in what she’d aptly described as her shoebox of an office. She was a cute little Welsh fairy—petite, with an upturned nose dusted with freckles. Just what someone named Gwen Evans should look like.
“Hello, Mr. Lovac?” Her lilting Welsh accent completed the profile.
“Hello, Doctor Evans.”
“Gwen is fine,” she said, offering her hand.
“All right. I’m Edwin.” He gripped her thin fingers carefully, but firmly.
“Well, Edwin, I must say that your codex keeps blowing my mind.”
“What do you mean?”
She waved for Ethan to take the seat across from her as she sat down. “How much did Doctor Oliver tell you before…before he was murdered by that deranged graduate student?”
Her eyes shimmered with tears. Quite a display of emotion over the death of her colleague. She was cute, but definitely not his type. Too emotional. He preferred Zoey—a wise and aloof Pallas Athena.
“He told me it was the only written text he’d ever seen in that language—British?”
“Brittonic. That’s true. Until I saw this text, I believed it had never been written down, only spoken.”
Her Welsh lilt had become hard-edged and didactic. He liked it better that way. “So it’s really a rare artifact?”
“The most unusual I’ve seen. It’s completely uncharacteristic of the Celtic mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Celts saw the world as a place of natural harmony and balance.” She tapped her finger on a book, its cover depicting a branching tree. “They didn’t see forces of good and evil in an eternal battle. But your text is about a battle between the worshippers of the sun god and those of the god of the night, who happen to have very long fangs.”
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