by L. A. Banks
They now wanted him to rule from a cavern below, and to possibly make another master and to carve up some of his old turf for the Aussie, to cover what would then be his open territories in South America and North America. That would bring the world pentagram back into alignment. Council would have the six available continent and fertile holdings from each area, and level seven would go after the biblical city where it all began. They wanted him in the war room planning the Armageddon with them. Too crazy.
And how did one choose to take a life, drop a body, and turn it into something abominable, after all he’d seen and all he now knew? He’d have to find someone with hatred and power-lust in their soul, a willing person like that, and bring them into his fold, according to the council. Then he’d have to surround himself with a team of five made lieutenants, one from each territory that reported to a topside master, and that had once been like him—on a mission, jaded, and with no remorse. It would be a power trust of nearly invincible vampires wreaking havoc topside . . . and making second- and third-generation vamps to restore the broken ranks on every continent of the globe. Damali was supposed to combat that nexus of evil, and he was to protect her, as well as keep his soul ever elevating toward the light. Bullshit. How?
He glimpsed Damali’s concerned expression as she came to him and sat down before him. He cast away her worries from his mental space as he continued to study the midnight-blue Heaven. She couldn’t fix this. Nobody could. There was no sense in bringing her down. Time was not on his side, and soon there’d be no getting around the issue. If he didn’t comply, the Vampire Council would figure out his duplicity, yet again. It wouldn’t be long until they found out that he loved her so much that all their power didn’t matter—that he’d been playing them, kicking game hard. He respected that they weren’t stupid, only power drunk; there was a difference. But what if the shit got good to him? He wasn’t above being seduced; he’d learned that much in Brazil. Even an old priest felt that coming . . . so did his woman.
Plus, the council already knew his weak spot—her. Already knew he had a soul caught between the upper and lower realms. They also had operatives everywhere. He couldn’t play both ends against the middle forever. The only sliver of hope was what he’d told them about her; if she continued to sense he had a soul in Purgatory, she’d willingly stay at his side. But that would only buy seven years of temporary amnesty—maybe. After that . . .
Carlos sighed, his gaze set harder on the dark horizon. These three nights were only a military-type furlough for what the Vampire Council considered a job well done. He had twenty-seven more nights, and then his reality would permanently change. One month’s leave to overindulge in the hedonistic pleasures of the earth—then they wanted him down on six, handling business from a power throne. A month. That was only a whisper in time when one considered eternity. A deep sadness filled him.
A part of him also grieved the loss of the Amazon—he could relate to her pain, her anger, and her righteous indignation . . . and even understand what had sent her down the wrong path. That much they shared in common; not knowing the full consequences of their actions before it was too late, then having no way to retreat from a very bad choice. Not to mention, all the people Damali had spoken of would be at extreme risk if he didn’t somehow figure out a way to play this hand right. More important, she’d be at risk to his ever-darkening self.
“Seriously, baby. What’s the matter?” Her voice was so tender it hurt to hear it.
“Nothing,” he finally said in a far-off tone. “I just have a lot on my mind.” That truth was as mirth-killing as the thought of what it would be like to, for once, hold her near and have her be able to listen to the sound of his heartbeat.
He watched the sudden joy in her vanish, stealing her playfulness away as the blue-white light of the moon glowed against her skin, making her appear to be an angel. Her bare feet against the damp grass, a sheath of white silk covering her . . . she was, in his mind, an angel. A wild, off-the-hook, sexy variable that had blessed him with her temporary company. But what was an angel doing with a dark entity like him?
“I’ma need to take you home, soon,” he said quietly, as she leaned forward and touched his cheek with a worried look in her eyes.
“Why? Pourquoi? The night is young, and you’ve just spoiled me rotten with all that food in there . . . mangoes, and—”
“Because it’s late,” he said gently, touching her hair, lifting her locks over her shoulders and studying their soft beauty in his hands. “The Vampire Council knows my situation and probably how I feel about you, which they’ll leverage against me soon. The Covenant will be looking for me. Right now, I’m only allowed this little bit of freedom because the Vampire Council knows you’re safer with me than anyone or anything else topside at the moment. And, sooner or later, you’ve got work to do, too.”
“And why is that a problem?” She tilted her head to the side, her eyes searching his. “If the Vampire Council thinks you’re protecting their cargo, and the Covenant is happy with the eleven-hundred souls weight you just helped deliver, and all the recent demon conquests worked out fine, then—”
“Because I’m getting too used to this. One night I might not wanna let you go. That could be dangerous for us both.”
She shrugged and kissed him gently. “I might not want to go one night when you should let me go, and I oughta leave. But that’s a problem years away. Seven years away. I’m a big girl, and can handle myself. Learn to enjoy the moment, mon, every delicious beat in de music.”
She smiled, even though it was tinged with sadness. She’d tried to make him laugh by badly mimicking Kamal’s accent—but it wasn’t working. Defeated, her shoulders sagged and she stroked his arm.
“Carlos, tomorrow, something else could happen, so . . . so flow with the beat while we have one.”
He kissed her softly and took her hand, intent on ending what was becoming another serious addiction. “I can’t feel certain beats, especially not the heart ones. Okay?”
She nodded, motioning toward the edge of the cliff with her chin. “Try something with me, and then I promise I’ll go home.” She stood and held out her hand to him.
He sighed, accepted her palm within his, and got up to follow her. She was so wonderfully exasperating at times, but she had no concept of what was going on behind the scenes, or how badly he wanted to make her live forever.
“Come over here, near the edge of this cliff so we can see the water. Then, sit down, and loop your legs over mine like this,” she ordered, smoothing out the sheath of white silk nightgown over both their legs. “There’s an old Ethiopian proverb: he who conceals his disease cannot be cured. Let me work on you with a little balm, okay?”
“All right, then what?” He smiled, despite his determination to remain somber. Even the contrast of what they had on said it all. Her white silk gown; his black silk pajama pants. Same fabric, but way different energies.
“Listen to the waves . . . and match your hand up with mine, but don’t touch it. Just hold it close.” She inhaled the salt air that rode on the breeze.
He complied, now intrigued. He knew Kamal and Marlene had taught her some new stuff, but to experience it was a curiosity that he couldn’t resist. He could taste the salt in the air with her. That wasn’t new, but in this context, it was working on his resolve to send her away. Yeah, he was definitely fascinated. Perhaps something more than that, as he watched her take slow breaths, and those wide brown irises of hers began to fade behind her pupils. In the moonlight, she was stunning.
“D, you know I can’t do this, not with your eyes, and—”
“Shush,” she whispered. “Listen to the waves. Relax. Concentrate. Breathe slowly and easy. Become one with the sound.”
A slow heat formed in the center of his palm after a while, the sound of the surf pulsing in it. Her hand came nearer, only millimeters from his, and he could almost swear a mild current ran between both their splayed palms. But her eyes, just listing to
the waves and searching the depths of them . . . hearing her heart, too, echo that same rhythm. He’d seen so much, but not this with her. Across the miles it was different, just a vibe, a thought transference. This was something so profound that he wasn’t sure how to react to it. He knew of the balm technique, how to do it, how to send the feeling of platonic healing like he did with the were, or the sudden heat of seduction without direct touch, but had never experienced this calm bonding with her. Then she shut her eyes and moved her hand to the center of his bare chest and pressed against it slowly. Warmth radiated within him, sending peace, and love, and simple joy so sacred that he was forced to close his eyes to experience it. Reverence followed.
It felt like her hand was throbbing where it landed, but the sensation came from within the hollow cavity he owned. The internal muscles around where her hand lay constricted to the same steady cadence of a throb, like a pulse, like the ocean slamming against the cliffs, then receding. Startled, he opened his eyes, and laid his hand over her heart in response.
He could feel everything he’d ever dreamed that was good and right leave him and enter her, pick up her thudding heart rhythm, and reenter him. They sat that way for a long time, emotion welling in him to the point where moisture crept to his eyes. She’d shared her pulse. Her essence of life. His dreams and caring ran through her, passed through her aorta, and entered his, like a shared value, giving, receiving in a closed-loop exchange.
“See,” she finally murmured. “It’s all good. You have a heartbeat . . . you can feel things.”
“It’s in the palm of your hand,” he whispered, awed.
“And in your skin,” she said quietly.
“And in your thoughts.”
She nodded. “In your touch.”
He traced her jaw. “You still want to go home?”
She smiled. “That was what you wanted.”
“Did I?”
She chuckled. “Uhmmm-hmmm.”
“My bad.” He looked at her, allowing his finger to trace her collarbone under the moonlight. She was right. His thoughts were hers and hers had become his in the sensual transfer, the sharing of her pulse. Now the throb burned somewhere else.
“See how synched up we are?”
He smiled, tracing her arm with the flat of his palm. “Want me to show you another way to synch up?”
“My wish came true,” she murmured with a smile, breaking the three-knotted bracelet around her wrist that a child in Salvador had given her, then tossed it over the cliff into the sea.
He nodded. “Just local superstition, baby.”
She looked at this man who’d been willing to give his soul for her, and twice she’d almost lost him to forces so dark that it made her shudder. She let her eyes leave his to trail down his chest and settle on the brand. No, he was hers, marked, and she wasn’t about to let go of him without a fight. She would claim him for herself, as well as for her side . . . just like Marlene had said to, with authority.
“Yeah . . . might be a silly superstition, but it may be good luck, anyway. Who knows?” She looked up at him, captured by his intense, sensual stare. “You want me to leave you?”
He shook his head. “Naahhh, we’ve still got time.”
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the next Vampire Huntress Legend novel
The
BITTEN
COMING IN JANUARY 2005
The Lair in St. Lucia . . .
“TELL ME your darkest fantasy,” she murmured against his ear, gently pulling the lobe between her teeth.
Carlos smiled with his eyes still closed, too exhausted to do much else. Damali sounded so wickedly sexy, but why did women always go there—searching for answers to questions they really didn’t want to hear in bed? “I don’t have any, except being with you.”
“Tell me,” she pleaded low and throaty, her voice so seductive that he’d swear she was all vamp.
No. He was not going to go there, no matter what. He was not going to stare into those big brown eyes of hers and get hypnotized by them. Dark fantasies. She had no idea what went through a master’s mind. Despite himself, his smile broadened, although he was still not looking at her. The things he’d seen . . . sheeit. Had she any concept of the lifetimes of male vampire knowledge he’d acquired from Kemet through Rome and beyond, just by being offered a Council seat?
He stroked her still damp back, his fingers reveling in the tingling sensation her tattoo created as he touched the base of her spine, hoping she’d let his love be enough to satisfy her.
“You’re my fantasy,” he finally said to appease her when she became morbidly silent. But he’d also meant what he’d said, albeit skillfully avoiding the question she’d really asked. “You’re this dead man’s dream come true, baby.”
Her response was a chuckle, followed by an expulsion of hot breath down the shaft of his ear canal. “Liar,” she whispered, as she slid her body onto his. “I know where you want to go.”
“D . . .” he murmured, too tired to argue with her, and much too compromised by her warmth to avoid being stirred by her butter softness. “C’mon, girl . . . stop playing.”
His hand continued to stroke her back, finding the deep sway in it that gave rise to her firm, tight bottom. He allowed his fingers to leisurely play at the slit that separated its halves, enjoying the moistness that he knew he’d created there. Her immediate sigh made him shudder and seek her mouth to kiss her gently, half hoping to shut her up, half hoping to derail his own darkening thoughts. Without resistance, she deepened their kiss, rewarding his senses with a hint of mango, the merest trace of red wine, and her own sweetness fused with his salty aftermath as his tongue searched the soft interiors around it.
Damn, this woman was fine . . . five feet seven inches worth of buff curves packaged in flawless bronze skin, lush mouth, brunette locks that kissed her shoulders, and a shea oil scent that was working him. It always did. He breathed in the fragrances held by her still-damp scalp, vanilla, coconut oils, and then there was also the scent of heavy, pungent sex hanging in the air.
“You always smell so good,” he murmured, kissing the edge of her jaw. He could still taste her on his mouth when he licked his lips, “Hmmm . . .” Sticky, sweet-salty, female. The way she breathed against his neck, and her head found the crook of his shoulder, she fit so perfectly, like a handmade blanket on him. Even exhausted, her slick wetness made him want to move just to maintain their friction, their pulse. Merely thinking about it made him hard again.
“I know you have to eat,” she said in a husky tone against the sensitive part of his throat, her tongue trailing up his jugular vein, causing him to tighten his hold on her.
“Yeah, I do . . . in a few,” he admitted quietly, now too distracted to go out hunting at the moment.
The way she tilted her hips forward, ever so slightly, a tease, an offering, just a contraction of the muscles beneath her bronze skin fought with the hunger and was winning. They’d been at it all night, and he glimpsed the moonlight that washed over her high behind through the deck opening. Silver blue hues shimmered on her smooth ass, and he touched the light with his fingers a millimeter above her skin. She shivered at the almost-touch. That was always her most powerful weapon; her reaction to whatever he was doing to her just blew him away. One more round and he’d have to go before dawn trapped and starved him.
“What’s your darkest fantasy?” he said smiling, turning the question on her, and not caring that a little fang was beginning to show with his smile. He passed his tongue over his incisors, willing patience as he played the game that she seemed to be enjoying.
Damali brought her head up to stare into his eyes with a mischievous smirk. “My darkest fantasy is fulfilling yours.”
He laughed low and deep and slow. “Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow in a challenge. “But I don’t have any really dark fantasies . . . this is all I need.”
“Liar,” she said again, chuckling from within her throat and planting a wet kiss on his Adam�
�s apple in a way that made him swallow hard. “I bet I know what it is, even if you won’t tell me.”
“This is working just fine,” he murmured, tracing her sides and finding both of her breasts to gently cradle.
“But there’s always more,” she whispered, lowering her mouth to roughly suckle one of his nipples.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” he told her arching, trying to penetrate her without success.
“But satisfaction brought her back.” She lifted her head and stared at him hard, her smile strained with anticipation, her expression one of unmasked desire.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The exchange was telepathic, electric, and he found her neck, kissed it hard, then her shoulder, licking a path down her collarbone. When she moaned, he almost lost it and bit her.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmured hot against her breast, before pulling a taut nipple between his lips.
Her inhale was a deep hiss, a sound that traveled through his body, igniting his want for her that never seemed to disappear. Whatever she asked for, he’d give her one last time before dawn. Didn’t she already know, por ella seria capaz de cualquier cosa? Yeah, he would do anything for her. “Tell me,” he whispered, “and it’s done.”
“I’ve already told you,” she said in a rasp, moving to allow him to slip inside her, then contracting around him before withdrawing.
“You have no idea . . . what you’re doing to me.” That was the pure truth. A scent that had been locked in the deep registers of his mind filtered into his awareness, gradually at first, and then stronger until it was all-consuming. Every inhalation now was riddled with the maddening aphrodisiac that he’d sworn he’d forget—had to—but it moved his body, banished a portion of his control. Master or not, Neteru was entering his system and slaying him.
Her skin had a sheen of perspiration on it, and she slid against him like water flowing over rocks, liquid fire motion, hips undulating in a slow, rolling current, with eddies that spontaneously spun, lurched, took him in to the hilt, then washed him ashore. His tightening grip would each time be enough to summon his return to her warm, wet center, only to be cast ashore by her fickle tide again and again, until he flipped her on her back and was done playing.
