by Liz Meldon
He hadn’t been the nicest of people. Hell, he hadn’t been a nice person—period. But Hugh had been her informant for a few years now, and while he’d been annoyingly quiet since his tip about the Banesview masquerade, Delia never wanted anything bad to happen to him. He was a rat. All the dead were League rats, spying on vamps, earning their trust and reporting back to hunters for a fee. Hugh was among the few who actually worked with low-ranking hunters like Delia, though Kain insisted he always overcharged her.
There would be a few hunters feeling as she did today. It was an uncomfortable blend of sadness and anger, plus a pinch of frustration. The League had decided to help the Warwick clan only two days ago, and suddenly seven of their informants were found dead. Did the Donovans have a spy in the organization? Did they have rats of their own?
She didn’t want to work with any of the other rats. Hugh had usually steered her in the right direction in the past. His mannerisms, from his horrific smoker’s cough to his muttered insults, were traits Delia was at least used to by now. Would she play his weeping widow at the League’s small memorial service tomorrow? No, but that didn’t mean she felt nothing at the news of his death. In fact, it made her heart hurt quite unexpectedly, and she went through the rest of her morning mindlessly clicking at various social media pages, emails, and shared articles in a fog, trying to distract herself from the pinched feeling in her chest.
Her phone vibrated at noon. After sitting in a crunched up position for an hour or so, her neck, legs, and, well, just about everything was horribly stiff, and Delia set her laptop aside and stretched, then reached for her phone. Devin had texted to ask how she was doing. One of his informants had been found hanging this morning too, so she responded in kind, telling him she was shaken but coping and asked how he was doing. Which seemed to be pretty much the same. From the words Devin used, Delia suspected that he was angrier than he let on.
A dark cloud had settled over the League—a dark cloud flying the Donovan colours. If the rats weren’t safe, then nobody was. Informants were promised League protection for their services. Yet here was a very violent, very public display of defiance by the Donovan clan right on the doorstep of League headquarters.
After a long hot shower, Delia settled back down on the couch and loaded up a show to distract herself. While the episode buffered, she grabbed her phone again and clicked on her contacts app to call Kain. Halfway through scrolling, however, she discovered a name she hadn’t personally added.
Claude Grimm.
Her lips morphed into a lopsided grin. Bold bastard had slipped his phone number onto her phone—he’d even taken a selfie for the contact photo. Those brilliant blue eyes, electric as ever, stared back at her, his smile touching them so that it actually looked genuine.
It was then she thought back to his offer to help her hone her fighting skills. Delia had pushed it aside last week as she recovered from her injuries, and while Claude himself was more difficult to forget, she’d somehow been able to avoid thinking about it until now.
Maybe there was merit in the offer. As Delia saw it, there were two sides to every coin, just as there were two sides to Claude’s offer. On the one side, he probably was at least partly interested in helping her because of the unsettling but growing attraction between them. On the other side, there was the possibility that it was a ruse, and Claude planned to use her to gain inside information on League comings and goings. Sure, he might have saved her from a murderous vamp recently, but even Delia’s brain had no problem concocting dangerous ulterior motives.
If all that was something a vamp king would do. It seemed more like a task for an underling, frankly.
Maybe, just maybe, he actually wanted to help her improve because he was worried for Delia’s safety.
If Donovans were attacking League informants, hunters on patrol in characteristically “safe” areas might be next. Maybe Delia should beef up her fighting skills. Clearly her sessions with Devin and the League trainers weren’t doing much—maybe it was time to look elsewhere.
Her thumb hovered over the call button on his contact page, a surge of adrenaline washing over her, until she tossed the phone aside and watched her show instead. But once again Delia was unfocused, her mind elsewhere as she tried to get into the episode’s plot. When the credits rolled, she was right back to Claude’s contact page, staring at it while a great internal debate raged over whether or not to call him.
In the end, she succumbed and let her thumb fall, hesitantly bringing the phone up to her ear. The first ring made her heart hammer. She was only agreeing to this because there was the possibility of gaining insider information through Claude. Even if he was spying through her, she could play that game too.
Yeah. That was why she’d pressed call. Totally.
The second ring made her mouth dry.
The third made her palms clammy.
She closed her eyes, suddenly hoping he wouldn’t answer.
“Hello?” He did after the fifth ring. Delia opened and closed her mouth, but no words came out. She could hear her blood pumping in her ears. “Hello?”
“Claude,” she finally managed, then cleared her throat and willed her breathing to even out. “It’s Delia.” She swallowed hard, hating how the mere thought of him transformed her into a bumbling idiot. “Hi.”
There was a brief pause. “Delia.” She could actually hear the smile in his voice as he spoke. “This is a surprise.”
“Yeah, well—”
“A welcome one,” Claude added. Somehow Delia found herself curled up into an even tighter ball in the corner of the couch, constantly fixing her hair like he could actually see her.
“Oh. That’s good,” she forced out. “I was worried you might be sleeping. I mean. I should have assumed that. Just because you can be up during the day doesn’t mean you will be up.”
Stop rambling. Delia rolled her eyes, and then tugged at her hair, embarrassed that her discomfort was so obvious. His chuckle made her skin flush.
“I actually had a business lunch today,” he told her. “You caught me as I was saying my goodbyes.”
“Right. Good.” She wasn’t sure what to say suddenly, all her people skills disappearing when talking to a guy she was attracted to over the phone—like she was a teenager with a crush.
“What can I do for you, Delia?” Claude asked when the silence dragged on. “Have you called to accept my dinner date?”
“No,” she said flatly, detecting the teasing edge to his voice. “Actually, I called because…” She closed her eyes. Here goes nothing. “Because I want you to help make me a better fighter.”
Now it was his turn to take a pause. She waited, nibbling her lower lip because it was better than gnawing at her nails.
“Look, never mind,” Delia muttered, ready to hang up. “Forget I—”
“I’d be happy to help,” Claude insisted. The teasing was gone now, and in its place was an emotion Delia couldn’t quite wrap her head around. “When would you like to start?”
“I have tomorrow off,” she said without thinking—apparently her brain wanted this to happen immediately.
“Done. Would you like me to send a car to fetch you?”
“Fetch me to where?”
“My home, of course,” he told her. “I have a gym in the west wing, along with well-maintained trails should you wish to warm up with a run.”
Of course this was happening at his place. Why hadn’t she considered that before? It wasn’t like she could bring him down to the League training hall.
“I can find my own way there,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “When do you want me?”
The chuckle was back and she braced herself for some sexually charged innuendo…
“Anytime you wish,” was his response, which sent a chill down her spine. She sat a little straighter, all business, to will away whatever effect his voice had on her.
“Four o’clock.”
“Done.” The sounds of midday traffic rum
bled behind him, followed by the slamming of what she assumed was a car door. “See you then, Delia.”
“Okay.”
Seconds later the line was dead, and she tossed her phone aside like it scalded her. Unable to shake her steadily growing grin, Delia hopped up, energized for the first time all day, and went to tidy her disastrous kitchen.
Not because she wanted to do the dishes or scrub the grease stains off the backsplash, but because if she didn’t move, the high she felt after a mere two-minute conversation with Claude Grimm would utterly consume her.
And she wasn’t ready to be consumed.
Not yet.
CHAPTER 8: Rome Wasn’t Built in a Day
“You sure there’s a house out here?” The cabbie raised an eyebrow at her in the rearview mirror when Delia looked up from her phone, on which she had been tracking the car’s steady movement toward Claude’s forest-enclosed manor.
“Yes,” she said tersely. They must have had this conversation six times already, the driver getting more vocal as they made the turn onto the unpaved driveway through the woods.
The car jostled back and forth as it hit yet another dip in the road, and Delia’s hand shot out to grip the assist handle over the window until things evened out.
“Feel like I should charge extra for all the trouble my car’s gone through,” he muttered, irritability rolling off him in waves. “It’s not meant to go off-roading.”
“We’re on a road,” Delia countered. A terribly uneven road, sure, but if Claude’s soccer mom van could survive it, the taxi could too.
“On the road to nowhere,” he carried on as he leaned forward to peer through the windshield uncertainly. He then looked at her in the mirror again, and Delia glared back.
“Would it help if I told you I’m not taking you out here so I can murder you and chop your corpse up into little itty bitty pieces?” she snapped. The dot on her phone screen was almost at the destination, so why hold back anymore? “Will that clear the air? Seriously…”
“You know, I could have made you get out and walk, but I’m a nice guy—”
“Oh my god, stop.” She grabbed her purse and fished out two tens, then tossed them on the front seat. He didn’t deserve the six-dollar tip for all the crap he’d given her ever since they hit country roads, but she wasn’t in the mood to wait for change. “I’ll just walk.”
Thirty seconds later she was stomping along the forest path and the taxi was trying to turn around in an impossibly small space. Delia wondered whether she should stay to help, but then thought better of it. The cabbie had been an ass as soon as she told him her destination. Besides, her pre-training jitters were starting to get the better of her.
Once the high from her conversation with Claude had died down, she’d sat wondering if this was a good idea. Then she’d come to the conclusion that it was a great idea. Then she’d second guessed herself and the cycle started all over again.
As she walked, the inner turmoil finally started to ease. Something about being outdoors where it was quiet, where the weather was crisp and cool—it was soothing. Summer evolved into fall in a matter of weeks, though most of the leaves were still green and most of the days still warm. Today she’d gone through all her workout clothes and tried every possible outfit combination a number of times before settling on the one she wore now: black yoga pants, a loose navy blue t-shirt with a slight v-neck, and comfy old sneakers. Dark colours had always been flattering on her—and they hid the sweat.
As she walked, she wondered if track pants might have been more appropriate, then shook her head. While she wasn’t there to seduce Claude, she went with the yoga pants that hugged her curves best because a part of her wanted to look at least moderately attractive. They had slept together, after all.
She paused at the break in the trees. The dirt road carried on and opened up into a huge circle in front of the main house. To the far left of the manor sat a warehouse, which she suspected housed all of the clan’s vehicles. To the right were the trails down to the guest bunkers and dining hall.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed onward, arms crossed over her chest as she marched along the path and up to the front door. Well, doors. The entryway was an enormous, somewhat daunting place with mounted lanterns on either side of the two broad doors. The manor—castle, mansion, whatever it was—had a slate-grey rock pattern on the outer walls, but the doors were painted a dark pine green with black iron handles. Drumming her fingers against her thigh, Delia was about to reach for the knocker when she spied what looked like a doorbell hidden off to the side.
Seconds after pressing it, one of the doors swung open. Delia shifted back at Claude’s hasty appearance. Inside, the bell was still ringing its melodic tone.
“I wasn’t sure whether to… to… uh…” No. This fumbling, bumbling person she became around him wasn’t happening today. “I wasn’t sure whether to ring the bell or use the knocker thing. So.”
“Either is fine,” he insisted smoothly, opening the door wider and beckoning her inside. Delia hesitated, her eyes roving the sprawling entryway again. This was it. No going back now. Arms crossed over her chest again, she pushed in, not looking at him as she went—though the whiff of delicious cologne he wore was enough to make her cheeks flush. She bit them in response. No.
The entrance hall was much the same as it had been the last time she was there: huge and uninviting, gruesome tapestries of medieval battles hung from floor to ceiling. She turned away from what looked like an impaling scene as Claude sauntered up beside her.
“How did you get here?” he asked, standing close enough that she could feel his heat, but far enough that she didn’t get the urge to bolt.
“Taxi.”
“Ah. I’ll give you the number of my preferred car service next time. I’ve found the regular city cabs make a fuss coming all the way out here.”
She shrugged, not wanting to admit that he was right. “Sure.”
“Shall we?” Claude asked after a brief pause, gesturing to the grand staircase ahead with a slight grin.
“Yeah, right. Let’s… Let’s do this.”
“Oh, Delia, don’t sound so morose,” he teased. He strolled one step ahead of her, casually. “I promise it won’t be all that bad.”
She bit her lip to keep from responding, instead taking in his outfit with a single up-and-down sweep of her eyes. For once he wasn’t in dark jeans or dress pants. Instead, he was wearing a pair of fleece workout pants, grey, a little loose—which made his butt look surprisingly good. He’d paired it with a simple white t-shirt. It was strange seeing him look so casual. In her mind, Claude was forever wearing a suit and tie and leather shoes, dapper and cultured from head to toe.
This version of Claude was less intimidating. Like he wasn’t miles ahead of her on the sophistication scale, but somewhere reachable—this vampire king who wore too-white running shoes and drove a minivan to blend in. Delia smirked, then schooled her features when he looked back at her with a slightly arched brow.
True to his word, the west wing of Claude’s home housed a gym of sorts. While it lacked the extensive equipment and weights that the gym at HQ had, there were floor-to-ceiling windows that let in so much natural light that it hardly mattered. A few treadmills sat in front of the windows, along with a row of bikes. The lack of equipment wasn’t surprising by any means; vamps didn’t exactly need to work out. As Delia surveyed the room, she assumed it was mostly used by the clan’s human guests. At least everything was clean. Not a speck of dust in sight, nor a mirror to be seen.
“So what is it that you would like to work on?” Claude asked as he hauled a huge, squishy-looking blue exercise mat from its place along the wall and set it in the center of the room. “We have the whole place to ourselves.”
Delia joined him moments later, poking at the mat. It seemed much softer than the ones she was used to landing on. “Didn’t you come up with some grueling routine for me?”
“No.” Claude grinned again, shif
ting his weight between each leg as they both eyed each other. “I’m trying to stop being presumptuous, remember?”
“Huh.” She jumped onto the mat to test it out, then toppled over when she discovered it was much, much squishier than she’d expected. Heat crawled from her cheeks to the rest of her face and neck as she got herself situated under Claude’s unwavering stare. Trying to seem like she’d done it on purpose, Delia stretched her legs out and tried reaching her toes. “I’m just not great in a fight. I spar with other hunters and they always beat me. I watch training videos and read up on techniques, but I can’t get it and I don’t know why.”
Claude kneeled at the edge of the mat, his hands resting on his thighs. “Well, I can’t guarantee I’ll make you better, but I’ll try.”
Why? She wanted to ask it so badly. Why did he care so much? Sure, it was obvious he was attracted to her, but as she started to stretch her stiff leg muscles, she couldn’t help but think there had to be something more to it. Men don’t just do nice things like this without expecting something in return.
“I don’t know how you expect me to best a vamp in hand-to-hand combat without a weapon,” she said. It was always an issue she had a problem with. “I mean, they’re inherently stronger than humans. How am I supposed to win a fight when my opponent is freakishly more powerful than I am?”
“We’re in the same situation, you know.”
She shook her head. “No we’re not.”
“Well…” Claude chuckled. “Perhaps not the exact same, but vampires who are sun-resistant like me are actually physically weaker than those who aren’t.”
“Actually?”
His lips twitched like he was trying to hold back a smile. “Actually.”
“Then why are you guys running the show?”
“Because there are more hours in the day for us,” he said. After she’d asked the question, Delia could think of a hundred reasons why a sun-resistant vamp was better off than those confined to the shadows, but for some reason, she liked listening to Claude answer. His voice still had that melodic quality to it, even in a setting like this, and she found it easy to be lulled as he went on. “We make more alliances while they are stuck indoors. We blend better with the human populations… Plenty of reasons. Not all strong men can be rulers.”
