by Naima Simone
“Do you think he’s who we’re looking for?” she asked in a barely there voice.
“Don’t know.” Bastien pressed his forehead to hers, brushed a light kiss over her cheek. “If he isn’t, we can see if he knows where we can find a Cardei.” Tipping his head back, he stared into her eyes, traced a caress over her bottom lip. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She nodded, adrenaline jumping in her veins. “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.”
Bastien blinked.
She shrugged. “It seemed appropriate. John McClane kicks ass.”
“Remote. Snatched,” he muttered, tone dark with promise. Then he sighed, blowing out a hard breath. “I hate bringing you in here,” he growled. “It’s like leading a lamb into a den full of lions.”
Sinéad struggled to keep a frown from slamming down on her face. A lamb? Could he have tried to be more offensive? “You care to repeat that, hippogryph?”
“Hell no.” He scoffed. “Do I look like a man with a death wish?” Bastien set his bottle on the tabletop, grabbed her hand and slid along the black leather of the booth. “Sue me for needing to protect you.” He dragged her out behind him and tugged her up and into the curve of his body. “And you’re right, by the way,” he murmured and flicked a fingertip down her nose. “Die Hard is a badass movie.” His brows formed a stern vee as he pinched her chin between his finger and thumb. “Remember. Submissive. Quiet. Harmless,” he gritted out.
“Yes, yes.” Yada yada yada. “Let’s go.”
He glared at her, appeared as if he wanted to reprimand her. His jaw clenched then he turned, grumbling. Though she no longer possessed heightened hearing, she still caught the words crazy cruxim and get us killed.
She waved a mental hand. He worried too much.
Her hand still clasped in his, they weaved a path through the tables and before long reached the vampire who had been studying them so intently.
“Excuse me,” Bastien said, voice as smooth as the velvet drapes hanging behind the seated male. “May we join you?”
“By all means,” came the automatic reply. The vampire rose from his chair in a single, graceful motion. The dim light cast shadows in his rich auburn hair. Unlike the brassy red of the waitress, deep fire gleamed from the immaculately groomed strands caught in a tail at the nape of his neck. Elegant in a black shirt and slacks perfectly tailored to fit the breadth of his chest and slim, narrow hips, he was beautiful.
As beautiful as a panther before it pounced and went for the jugular.
He swept an arm toward the empty chairs flanking his table. As he settled into his seat again, his gaze shifted from Bastien to her. Recalling her role, she allowed her lashes to flutter before lowering, maintaining the coy act even when the discreet nudge at her shield came. Her fingers curled tighter around Bastien’s hand, her nails digging into his skin as she fought the urge to grip the vampire by the neck and pin him to the wall.
She leaned into Bastien, gave the other male a shy smile and kept him the hell out of her head. No way was he going to have a free romp in her brain. Let him think she was a human with unusually strong shields. There were mortals born with natural steel-like mental armor. Rare, but they did exist.
“Hmmm… Interesting,” he drawled, crossing one leg over the other. He lingered on her face another long moment before switching his attention back to Bastien. “My name is Faolan.” He didn’t extend his hand in greeting as the handshake was a human custom. No immortal would voluntarily offer a stranger such a vulnerable opening to their veins, neck or torso. “I haven’t seen you here before. I’m sure I would’ve noticed.” He straightened the perfect crease in his pants. “You two make an interesting pair.”
The careful dance of words. The subtle waltz of how-much-do-you-know-and-how-much-do-I-reveal.
“Bastien. And this is Sinéad.” He paused. “She’s aware of what I am,” Bastien murmured and the curiosity in Faolan’s dark eyes flared brighter.
“I have a feeling this would make a very fascinating tale,” the vampire murmured. “Very fascinating.” Once more his gaze moved to Sinéad, traced her features. She fought not to cringe away from the visual caress. It was more of a violation than the attempted telepathic probe.
“She’s also mine,” Bastien added in a voice as smooth as a rapier’s thrust. “And I don’t share.” The possessive words were for show, but they still caused a delicious shiver to quake through her. Mine, mine, mine. It bounced against the walls of her head and she wanted to reach out, grab the word and hold it close. Keep it.
“Wouldn’t dream of asking,” Faolan said, amusement sparkling in his dark eyes. He glanced behind them, lifting an arm. As soon as he curled his fingers a waitress appeared by his side. This one was petite, slender and sidhe, judging by the pointed tips of her ears poking through the thick, waist-length blonde hair. Both she and Faolon stared at them expectantly.
“A beer and club soda with a wedge of lime, please.” Bastien smiled at the fey female and pink stained her cheekbones. Sinéad swallowed a snort. The blush was as real as Sinéad’s shyness. In Sinéad’s experience, no sidhe was innocent or modest enough to blush. But then again, this hippogryph had a peculiar effect on people. His masculinity, elegance and beauty could charm the sun from the sky and have it begging to burn up the sheets with him. Humans may have reviled his scars, but obviously this fey, like the red-haired kitty, found them incredibly sexy.
As did Sinéad.
At one time, the stunning arousal would have been difficult to admit, but after days with him it was becoming easier and easier to accept. The roller coaster of emotion. The slow curl and tightening in the bottom of her stomach. The pinpricks of sensation in the tips of her breasts and the heavy primal pounding in the swollen, wet flesh between her legs. The taste of his mouth lingering on her tongue hours after their kiss. Those things couldn’t be denied or ignored. She desired Bastien. Wanted him. Pressing her cheek to his shoulder, she turned her head an inch, rubbing her skin over his shirt and the hard muscle beneath. She inhaled, taking in his wind-and-heather scent. She wanted him. Oh yes, the admission was coming much easier now.
Bastien and Faolan engaged in meaningless chitchat Sinéad couldn’t have pulled off even under the penalty of death. Her admiration for Bastien swelled. His deep, cultured voice flowed over her senses like the cool Irish mists. Nothing betrayed his unease at bringing her into this den and placing her in potential danger. He was relaxed, urbane, but dangerous as a sleeping beast.
It appeared as if Faolan too recognized the creature he sat across from. In spite of his casual demeanor and pose, she caught the slightly forward position of his shoulder and hip. No one but another fighter would have noticed the small detail. With a moment’s notice, the vampire would be able to shift to the side and quickly avoid an oncoming attack. Smart guy.
“You’re a Cardei,” Bastien said as their server set their glasses and beer bottle on the table in front of them and backed away.
Sinéad calmed the sudden leap in her pulse. Faolan may not be able to penetrate her mind, but he would be able to hear the flow of her blood, the beat of her heart. Though his pleasant expression didn’t alter as he raised the flute of dark crimson liquid to his lips, his bottomless stare slid from Bastien to Sinéad and the unblinking inspection lingered on her for several moments. She glanced at the vampire from under lowered lashes. What did those shrewd eyes perceive? A guileless human? Or did the piercing gaze peer past the charade to the heart of the hunter?
“Yes, I am,” Faolan murmured.
He sipped from the glass. The small flutter of his lashes and momentary tightening of skin over sharp cheekbones telegraphed his almost carnal pleasure in the drink. Either the wine had been converted by Jesus Christ Himself or the glass contained blood. And since she’d never heard of a holy wineskin along with the Grail, her bet was on the glass containing good old-fashioned hemoglobin.
“You’re no longer thirsty?” Faolan asked, nodding his head toward Bastien’s b
eer. The brown bottle stood untouched on the table, the black napkin underneath catching the sluggish rivulets of condensation rolling down the sides. Smoke-like vapor wafted from the bare lip.
Bastien smiled, slowly flashing strong, white teeth. “I prefer to open my own. Thank you, though.”
Again, Faolan inclined his head, seemingly unoffended by the hippogryph’s lack of trust. Here, in this den—in their world—trust wasn’t freely given until broken. It was earned then grudgingly offered.
“Understood.” His long fingers stroked the rounded base of his glass like a lover. “Am I who you came here looking for?”
She didn’t dare lower her mental shields to sample Faolan’s emotion. Contrary to the prevailing myths and cinematic images about vampires, they were creatures of emotion. In truth, theirs were more powerful than most immortals’. Their passions ran deeper, their joy higher, their grief more wrenching. Sinéad’s theory was the human blood vampires fed on magnified their own feelings like a microphone amplified sound. Blood contained life, as the Cross of Nef proved. It was power. Of course, a vampire’s blood didn’t have the same effect on cruxim, so she could be wrong. Or maybe her people had become so adept at sublimating their own emotion, there was nothing to intensify.
“Not you, specifically,” Bastien explained, slipping an arm around Sinéad’s shoulders and tugging her closer into the curve of his body. Her breasts pressed to his side and the hand not captured by his slid over his lower back and rested on his hip—where she’d had the foresight to hide another short-bladed sgain. Her fingers brushed the hilt. “A couple of nights ago in Las Vegas, I interrupted a wendigo during its feeding. He graciously told me how he’d made a pact with the Cardei regina. For a price, she kept the cruxim in the area from interfering in his activities.”
“Really.” Faolan’s fingers stilled on the glass, the only sign of a predator gone on alert. “And what prompted this wendigo to be so free with information?”
Bastien shrugged a shoulder as a grin slashed across his face. “I let him live.” Pause. “At least for another ten minutes.”
This time the vampire didn’t conceal his surprise. Both auburn eyebrows arched high and his full lips parted. A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Well then,” he said. “A wendigo’s disappearance is easy enough to verify.” He cocked his head, stared at Bastien with a gleam of appreciation in his onyx eyes. “For conversational purposes, what are you seeking?”
Bastien tilted his head, mimicing Faolan’s gesture. “For conversational purposes, are you the one who would be able to grant my request?”
Silence, snapping with tension and aggression, vibrated between the two males. Red flames leaped and flared in the vampire’s eyes but were quickly banked. Sinéad curled her fingers around the dagger’s hilt. Faolan smiled. Her grip tightened.
“I like you, hippogryph,” he said, raising the glass for another sip. He stared at Bastien over the rim, assessing him. Good luck with that puzzle. Sinéad snorted silently. The vicious marks paired with the genteel manner. The air of the predator that lurked beneath the sophistication. The beast wrapped in civilization. Bastien was an enigma—a mysterious, confusing, wonderful enigma. “Where are you two staying?”
“In Boston.”
The vampire chuckled. “Again, I like you.” He set the drink on the table and unfolded from his chair. Bastien stood, bringing her to her feet with him. Her hand remained clasped in his. She wasn’t sure if this was to continue the façade of lovers or to keep her from going for the vampire’s throat. Another smart move. “Leave your contact information with me, Bastien.” Not a promise, but not a denial.
Faolan moved until he stood in front of them, forcing Bastien and Sinéad to circle around so the vampire didn’t flank either of them. Inside, Sinéad grumbled at the vampire’s subtle maneuvering. Very smooth. Damn it.
Prepared, Bastien removed a slip of paper from his pants pocket. As he passed it to Faolan, she glimpsed the succession of numbers printed in bold handwriting. Faolan glanced down at the note before tucking it inside his jacket.
“Now,” the vampire smiled, flashing the tips of his fangs. “Please join my friends and me for the evening. Be my guests.”
“Thank you, but—”
“I insist.”
Translation, follow me or forget about your request going any farther.
Yes, they could find another member of the Cardei sânge trib, but no doubt Faolan would sabotage any overtures she and Bastien made.
Hmmm. It seemed as if the vampire had outflanked them after all.
Chapter Eight
Bastien went rigid.
To Sinéad, his thoughts couldn’t have been clearer if a teleprompter had suddenly appeared on his forehead. He refused to place her in any further danger, especially since they had no idea what awaited them.
She tugged on his hand, tilted her head back and fluttered her lashes. Lady, I feel like such an ass. “Please, Bastien,” she cooed. “Let’s go. I think it will be fun.”
He lowered his head and his eyes glittered like bright emeralds in a face set in stone. Fury simmered in the jeweled stare, fury because she’d forced his hand. Well tough. They needed in with Faolan. Allowing Bastien’s chivalrous streak to ruin this lead would be beyond foolish.
Bastien moved so fast she didn’t have time to suck in a breath. His fingers locked in her hair, drawing her head back as his body plastered against hers. The other hand grasped her hip. His hard, muscled frame pressed to hers, the thick column of his cock nudging her abdomen… Rage. Fear. Want. She shivered as his emotions swelled, hiking hers higher for the crazy ride.
“Damn it, Sinéad,” he growled next to her ear, the words barely decipherable above the dark rumble. “Let me in.” His grip on her hair tightened and tiny pricks pinched her scalp. “Let. Me. In.”
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand, not when the demand was coupled with the gentle but insistent nudge at her shields. Instinctive panic streaked through her, tickling her chest wall like the frantic flutter of butterfly wings. No one had ever been allowed inside her head. Given the intrusion of her empathic gift, she was more zealous than other cruxim about keeping the inner sanctum of her brain free from others. It was the last frontier that remained hers. Untouched. Unspoiled. She didn’t trust anyone enough to allow them entry…
Not true.
Snapshots of their time together flashed in front of her in a carousel of images.
Bastien cooking dinner for her. Bastien leaping from the couch and pushing her behind him to protect her from an unforeseen threat. Bastien charging into battle beside her against the wendigo. Bastien healing her. Kissing her.
Her breath caught in her throat as revelation peeled the layers back from her eyes and soul. Leaning back, she stared up into his hard, unblinking gaze. At some point her spirit had decided to trust him…it just hadn’t clued her brain in on the decision.
With a shudder, she lowered her defenses.
And held her breath.
At first, she felt nothing. Then came a soft touch—like a quiet summer breeze—over the walls of her mind. It teased, caressed, stroked her with a lover’s calming hand. She stilled, waited for the sense of violation.
It didn’t come.
The touch was tender, firm, respectful.
Bastien.
“Are you okay?”
She started at the words, the oddity of hearing someone inside her head a bit of a shock. His fingers on her scalp and hip held her steady, controlling the flinching movement. The tumult his touch caused was still there, but lessened somewhat with her shields lowered. Not any less stirring—just not as debilitating. She sank further into his physical, emotional and mental embrace.
“Y-yes.” She sent the reply along a fragile, new pathway.
“Good.” He lowered his head, pressed his lips to her forehead for a long moment. “Go raibh maith agat as do bronntanas.” Thank you for your gift. The perfectly accented G
aelic whispered over her senses, the formal phrase a precious acknowledgment of her difficult sacrifice.
A discreet clearing of a throat sounded behind Bastien.
“I think our host is impatient.” The corners of his mouth twitched.
Sinéad leaned to the side and glanced around Bastien’s large frame. Nothing in Faolan’s placid expression gave away his eagerness, but the vampire did throw a look toward a black, closed door.
“Forgive us,” Bastien said smoothly, pivoting to face Faolan and drawing Sinéad close with a heavy arm around her shoulders. “We had a couple of things to discuss.”
Faolan nodded, smiled. “Of course. I wouldn’t want you or your lovely companion to be uncomfortable.” He gave a small, courtly bow in her direction before heading across the room.
She and Bastien followed at a short distance. The vampire paused before a black door that would have been indistinguishable from the wall if not for the silver knob protruding from it. With a twist of his wrist, Faolan opened the door. As soon as they cleared the opening, the portal swung shut behind them, enclosing them in a hallway paneled with wine and dark velvet. Ornate sconces lit the corridor, casting more shadows than light. Several steel doors broke the monotony of velvet, no doubt hiding customers and their acts behind walls most likely reinforced for sound and privacy.
“Here we are,” Faolan announced, stopping before a door. He glanced over his shoulder at them and her stomach dipped at the gleam in his eyes. Unease skated down her spine as the vampire pushed the door open. Bastien moved forward and fury sizzled across their mental link even before the blistering curse resounded in her head.
She stepped from behind his protective bulk and shifted to his side. Whatever it was couldn’t…be…that…
