Of Blood and Passion

by Pamela Palmer

  With dawning understanding, Quinn smiled. “Grant shared his secret…and a bit of magic.”

  Kassius’s confusion cleared. “Amazing. Now all you have to do is act as fearless and unconcerned as Grant does.”

  Her mouth twisted ruefully. The vampires might not taste her fear, but they’d see it quickly enough if she wasn’t very, very careful.

  Kassius eyed her. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Which was an out and out lie and they both knew it. As she stepped into the hallway, the screams had her drawing in a harsh breath.

  “Keep your wits about you, Quinn,” Kassius said quietly, then he left her in a vampire flash. He would remain close enough to hear her if she needed him, but it wouldn’t do for Grant to be seen looking chummy with a vampire. Cristoff and the other vampires left Grant alone to wander the castle as he pleased.

  Heart pounding in her chest, Quinn started down the long hallway that would lead to the foyer and the suffering Slavas, and finally the stairs. As everything inside her yelled for caution, she forced herself to walk at a brisk pace, struggling to mimic Grant’s nonchalant stride, channeling a man who hated his life and everyone in it.

  Upstairs was located both Grant’s bedroom—where she was to meet up with Kassius again—and Cristoff’s private study—their ultimate destination. Unfortunately, upstairs was also Cristoff’s throne room where he often entertained himself by torturing people.

  But first she had to walk through the foyer.

  Her breath grew more and more shallow the closer to the screaming she came, but she set her jaw and forced herself to keep going. Her legs turned heavy, her survival instinct fighting her forward movement. Her heart thudded, sweat beading at the back of her neck. As she neared the foyer, her vision began to turn white at the edges.

  Tesoro, Arturo said quietly in her head, a reminder that she wasn’t alone. His voice helped quiet the rising panic, if only a little.

  Head down, she reached the foyer, the pain of a dozen humans flaying her from all sides. Don’t look, she told herself. Just keep going. But she barely knew Cristoff’s castle, unlike the real Grant who’d lived here for decades, and she had no choice but to watch where she was going.

  The marble and ivory foyer was huge, easily the size of a small ballroom. In the very center stood a black lacquer grand piano, while along the walls sat lines of red velvet benches. Scattered across the marble floor were a dozen humans writhing in pain, each with a swollen protrusion on his or her neck, or bare groin, the size and color of a ripe plum.

  Quinn’s breath hitched as she stared at the sickening protrusions. The need to help them was a living thing inside of her, but she had no idea how. And this was not the time. Belatedly, she realized she’d nearly quit walking altogether. Shit. She had to be Grant! He’d learned to ignore all of this decades ago. More than a century. Be Grant.

  “Grant.” At first the name barely registered over the screams of Cristoff’s victims. “Grant!”

  Quinn froze, then turned slowly to find Sheridan, Grant’s brother, walking through the foyer toward her.

  Dammit to hell.

  Chapter 13

  “What?” Quinn asked Sheridan brusquely, not looking up. Her green eyes in Grant’s face would be a dead giveaway, though it was unlikely she could fool the sorcerer’s vampire sibling for long, regardless.

  “You’re going to tell me what’s going on, brother. And you’re going to do it now, or I’m going to tell Cristoff you’re up to something.”

  “I’m busy.” Quinn turned away, praying the bluff worked, but before she’d gone two steps, she felt his palm slam against her chin in a move that felt awkward. Even as her eyes stung with tears at the painful blow, she understood what had happened. She’d seen Sheridan lift his brother by the neck and suspected he’d attempted to do that now. But her neck was slightly lower than Grant’s and he’d hit her chin instead.

  Sheridan stared at her and she lifted her eyes, knowing the gig was up. With this male, at least.

  Though born shortly after the Civil War, Sheridan Blackstone looked no older than twenty-five and dressed as he probably had back in the 1870’s—his shirt white, his sleeves wide, his pants black. He looked a lot like Grant with his good bone structure and the dark blond hair. She’d never seen him without a scowl on his face. Until now.

  He stared at her with confusion.

  “Say nothing,” she said quietly. “A lot of lives depend on it, including yours.”

  “Sorceress,” he breathed. He reached for her arm, then seemed to think better of it. “Follow me or I will yell for Cristoff.”

  Hell and damn. But she did as he asked and followed him back out of the foyer and into a nearby room, one blessedly empty. The moment they were both inside, Sheridan closed the door and turned on her.

  “Where’s my brother?”

  “Hiding so that no one sees two of us. I just left him. He’s aware that I’m wearing his face.”

  “What are you up to?”

  She honestly didn’t think this Blackstone had any more use for Cristoff than his brother, but the fact that Grant hadn’t shared his secrets with Sheridan made her especially cautious.

  “I can’t tell you the specifics, only that this is the only way to save Vamp City.”

  He moved closer, aggressively so, crowding her against the wall. Her hand clenched with the longing to throw him against the opposite wall, but turning this into a fight probably wasn’t her best option.

  “That’s not how this is going to work, sorceress,” the vampire said, his voice cold. “You are going to tell me the specifics, every last one of them.”

  Quinn glared at him, but quickly filled him in—how the Levenach curse was strangling her Blackstone magic. And how the only way to save Vamp City was to destroy the sword Escalla.

  Sheridan’s jaw dropped. A grin began to spread across his face and he actually laughed. “I love it. Do you have any idea how you’re going to accomplish this?”

  Quinn shrugged, not willing to tell him the entire plan. “Magic. And a lot of luck.”

  His laughter died, but he continued to grin. “Cristoff’s going to be livid, if you break his toy.”

  “At least he’ll still be alive. Something none of you will be if the city’s magic fails. Don’t give me away, Sheridan. I’m the only chance you have.”

  He peered at her, his eyes a bit too sharp. “Someone’s helping you other than Grant. Who?”

  She said nothing.

  “You’re going to tell me who, Quinn, or I will blow your cover.”

  “No,” she said, her own voice cold. “I’ve told you the truth, but I won’t endanger anyone else. Turn me over to Cristoff and risk Vamp City, or let me go, Sheridan. I have a small window of opportunity and I need to take it.”

  He eyed her speculatively. “I’ll walk you up there.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Nevertheless, you’re getting an escort. If anyone else approaches you, I can deflect them.”

  She didn’t really trust this Blackstone brother any more than the other one. Still… “All right. I’m going to…my bed chambers.”

  He looked at her a little sharply, then nodded. “Come.”

  Since she had no choice, she followed him out of the room, walking beside him, not trying to hide the annoyance she felt since Grant almost always appeared annoyed at his brother. But as they crossed the foyer and climbed the stairs, she was glad she wasn’t alone. With Sheridan by her side, no one would give her a second look.

  I have told Cristoff a tale, tesoro, Arturo said, his voice sliding through her mind. A tale of how the wily sorceress leads me on a miserable chase, disappearing at will. And how my fine friend Micah accompanies me, how we lay traps for her, how it is just a matter of time before we catch her. He believes we lost you in the Crux and were forced to back away from the wolves. He is not pleased, but still he trusts me as he does no other. It pains me, amore mio. When I look into his eyes, I can f
ind no glimpse of the Cristoff I knew, yet he remembers our connection and cherishes it still.

  By the time Quinn and Sheridan reached the top of the stairs, Quinn was almost sick to her stomach from the combination of screams raking her ears and heart, and her own quaking fear. But they made it to Grant’s bedroom without incident.

  Kassius, who was waiting for her, as planned, frowned at the sight of Sheridan.

  Sheridan looked at him with speculation. “Denard? Or another who has been glamoured?”

  “The less you know,” Quinn said, “the better. I suggest you get away from this part of the castle before anything happens. Make yourself visible in the billiards room. You don’t need to be implicated in this.”

  “As my brother will.”

  “Only if we fail. And we don’t intend to fail.”

  The sorcerer-turned-vampire scowled, but turned and left without another word. Whether to do as she suggested or to tell Cristoff he’d found her, she had no idea. She had to assume the former and press forward.

  She turned to Kassius with a groan. “Not a perfect execution of phase one, but I’m here.”

  He nodded. “Cristoff has stationed two guards outside his study. He must suspect someone might go after that sword.”

  “As much as I hate to say it, the screaming will help cover a lot of sound.” Small sounds, at least, which breaking the sword free of its case wasn’t likely to be unless she suddenly managed to control the force of her magic. A crash in Cristoff’s supposedly empty study would end up getting them killed.

  Arturo stood at Cristoff’s side in the castle’s opulent throne room. Thick gilt pillars soared high to the ceiling from a marble floor heavily stained and splattered with blood. The walls, too, were now badly bloodstained, as were the weapons and tapestries that had once so proudly graced them. Cristoff himself, dressed head to toe in peacock blue satin, now splatter-stained with blood, sat upon the golden throne he’d ordered built for himself just two years ago, a throne upholstered in dark red velvet. The old Cristoff had had no need for a throne, Arturo realized. He’d sat amongst his people.

  When had everything changed?

  Hands clenched tight behind his back, Arturo kept his gaze fixed at the level of the ceiling at the far side of the room as the screams tore through his head. He knew the male pinned to the floor in front of him was a Slava, and immortals healed most injuries quickly. But even an immortal could die, and it was quite clear Cristoff intended to torture this one until he did just that.

  Where had the master he’d so admired gone, and how had he not noticed? How long had it been since the two of them had fed simply by walking the streets of D.C. late at night? There used to be a women’s hospital on L Street where women gave birth. It had been one of Cristoff’s favorite places. They’d walk around the back and stand in the shadows as the screams and groans of a woman in labor carried through the windows. Cristoff would feed, simply, enjoying the sound of new life being brought into the world. Cristoff’s words. How many times had Arturo heard him say, “Pain is a part of the human condition. They suffer enough for us to feed well. There is no need, and no justification, for us to cause them more.”

  Now Cristoff watched with malicious hunger as one of his guards cut off the toes of the male Slava lying on the floor in front of him. The guard doing the cutting was a male Arturo did not know, a male whose eyes glittered with the same savagery as Cristoff’s.

  Arturo’s muscles quivered so strongly with the need to stop this barbarity, he feared his facade as the loyal son would, at any moment, crack.

  And perhaps it was time.

  But, no, it was not. The only way to stop Cristoff was to attack and kill his master before Cristoff could kill him in return.

  The growing certainty that it would come to that, and soon, tore something loose inside of him. But first he must help Quinn save the city. His death in an attempt to save three Slavas would serve no purpose and would only end up costing the Slavas, and most of those residing in Vamp City, their lives.

  No, there was nothing to be done but pretend he was no more moved by the suffering in front of him than he had been a few short weeks ago, before Quinn had walked into his life and changed everything.

  “You and you,” Cristoff said, pointing to two of the guards standing at attention. “Grab a Slava and join us.” Cristoff waved impatiently to two Slavas, one male, one female, who sat against the wall, shaking with terror.

  The one guard grabbed the male and threw him down hard enough on the marble floor in front of Cristoff to break bone. Arturo’s head began to throb. The second guard, though not gentle, merely pushed the woman to her knees in front of him. She began to cry with great hiccoughing sounds that ripped at Arturo’s heart.

  “Show me blood!” Cristoff yelled.

  The first guard pulled his knife and began to hack at the man with gusto. But the second hesitated, and Arturo suspected that he’d begun to reclaim his soul as so many appeared to be doing. Under different circumstances, that would have been a good thing.

  “Blood!” Cristoff roared.

  The second guard pulled his knife, but the woman’s misery had gotten to him, there was no doubt about it. His gaze rose to Cristoff.

  “Surely you’ve had enough pain by now, my liege,” the guard said, his eyes wide.

  Arturo winced because he knew what came next.

  Cristoff leaped from his throne, strode to the guard, and slammed his palm against the male’s forehead. Almost immediately, the guard’s scream joined those of the two Slava males. Blood began to seep from the male’s nose and ears.

  Cristoff was using his mind blast, the ability to pulverize another’s brain with a simple touch of his hand.

  Arturo clasped his own hands hard behind his back, fisting them, his breath shallow as he fought the impulse…the need…to stop this.

  It was not the time, he reminded himself. It was not the time. Quinn needed him.

  The guard’s screams slowly went silent. The male fell, boneless, to the blood-slicked marble floor. As Cristoff walked back toward his throne, the guard exploded as all vampires did when they died.

  Cristoff turned, as if to take his seat, but instead just stood there, and Arturo wondered what new horror his master had in mind. But instead of barking another heinous order, Cristoff turned to Arturo, his face a mask of confusion. For one startling moment, horror bloomed in eyes Arturo had once known well. But as quickly as the horror appeared, it was gone. Cristoff’s expression cleared and he sat decisively and clapped his hands.

  “Continue!”

  Arturo’s pulse began to race. Had he just imagined he’d glimpsed the old Cristoff? Or was his master, too, finally beginning to reclaim his soul? Arturo had never stopped hoping that he might, that Cristoff, too, would eventually emerge from the darkness.

  The question was, how many more would die before that happened?

  Chapter 14

  Quinn paced Grant’s bedroom, shaking her hands, trying to get control of her runaway nerves.

  “It is time, sorceress,” Kassius said quietly.

  “I know, I know.” It was all up to her, now. Taking a deep breath, Quinn concentrated on what she needed to do—form a bubble around the two of them, then push it outward, toward Cristoff’s study. The bubble would form a secret passage that would pass right through locked doors and walls, and everything in its path including random Gonzaga guards. Completely unseen and undetected, if all went as planned.

  Her sense of direction had never been great, and once inside the bubble, she had no way to get her bearings. But Kassius had assured her that he had an excellent internal compass thanks to his wolf’s blood. It was the main reason he was her partner for this part of the mission and not Micah.

  Quinn closed her eyes and called up her magic. It rose through her body, and into her hands, like a painless electrical current just under her skin. When her hands began to tingle intensely, she threw the power up and out in an exhilarating rush, forming
a bubble around them, casting the pair of them into darkness.

  “Nicely done, sorceress.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn reached down and lifted the flashlight out of her boot, flicking it on. The walls of the bubble glimmered faintly like black opal, but there was no seeing outside, no hearing anything, which was a blessing. They were completely enclosed.

  “How far do you think it is from here to the study?” she asked Kassius. “Twenty feet?”

  “Yes. Thirty should put us in the middle of the room.”

  She handed Kassius the flashlight. “Point me in the right direction, Kass.”

  With a nod, he illuminated the far side of the bubble, some ten feet in front of her.

  Lifting her hands, she directed the magic still pulsing in her palms toward the spot of the flashlight beam, watching with satisfaction as the black opal wall flew backward an additional ten feet. Her elongating bubble would quickly begin to look like a peanut. Then, finally, a tunnel.

  “More, Quinn,” Kassius said. “The same direction, another ten.”

  With a nod, she pushed the magic with her palm, then again.

  “Perfect, I believe,” Kassius said. “But let me check.” He reached for Quinn’s hand, poked his head through the rubbery wall, then pulled back. “The coast is clear, we’re exiting in the middle of the room, and there is nothing to trip over.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Quinn looked at him uneasily. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to see for yourself.” With his hand still in hers, he stepped fully out of the bubble and she followed, leaving the bubble intact for their escape.

  Cristoff’s private study, a room she’d been in once before, was surprisingly warm and inviting considering the mercilessly cold male to whom it belonged. Bookshelves lined the walls, a large chess table in one corner of the room, a large mahogany desk in another. A worn leather recliner sat before the hearth on a thick Persian rug. And in what appeared to be a glass case against the back wall hung one brightly glowing sword. Escalla.