Hmm ... A vampire who hated him, who would send an immortal to do his work for him. There was only one he knew of that cowardly. That low. Only one vampire with a vendetta for him still existed on this earth who would try to blindside an enemy.
Noiret.
Chris stared down at the sleeping immortal, his mind slowly but surely putting the pieces together. He, himself, like Noiret, was a powerful vampire, being very old and sired by Valmont Lascaux, the oldest vampire in existence. If the immortal had simply tried to attack him on the street, Chris would have had an equal chance of killing his opponent. No. The bullets had been meant for the immortal who’d staged the shooting, somehow knowing Chris would take him in and make himself vulnerable in the act of nursing the wounded immortal back to health.
It all made perfect sense.
However, obviously, something had gone seriously wrong. If it hadn’t, the immortal would have been able to attack Chris as soon as his wounds healed. Perhaps the bullets had rendered more damage than the immortal had meant them to. Immortals did, Chris knew, develop weaknesses to certain substances over time. Perhaps this Roman had a weakness to lead.
Which meant that Chris’s intended killer was still ill and at the mercy of his own quarry. Unless he was faking, feigning serious illness until Chris no longer had any doubts or suspicions. Any immortal worth the knife he carried would understand the thought processes of a vampire.
A knife. Of course!
Carefully, Chris slipped his hand under the sleeping man’s back, his fingertips coming immediately into contact with the hard steel of a blade. Immortals had their own brand of knife, especially those immortals who were vampire hunters. Immortals’ slaying knives were weapons strong enough to end the life of any kith.
A vampire slayer. Which this immortal apparently was if Noiret had hired him.
Christian worked the knife out of the immortal’s belt and slid it out from underneath him. He held the blade up to the light, watching the glow of flames glint off the polished steel. The blade was long enough and sharp enough to impale a vampire, no matter how powerful, and bring about his or her dissolution.
Christian sighed, his hopes of having found a lover cruelly dashed. He gazed down at the beautiful Roman asleep on the carpet as he came to terms with what must happen next.
Of course, there was only one thing he could do now.
* * * * *
Jesse, where are you? Are you all right? Jesse!
Hannah’s voice sounded, louder and louder, rousing Jesse from sleep.
His eyes were closed, his body heavy and immoveable. Hannah, he hasn’t touched you, has he?
No. But he’s threatened to. Soon. Where are you, Jesse?
I’m where I’m supposed to be. I’ll come soon. I’ll have the vampire’s head and I’ll get you free. I promise.
Oh, Jesse, please be careful. I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.
It won’t, Hannah. I promise.
Jesse opened his eyes. His body felt stiff and sore. He went to stretch and found he couldn’t move at all. Heavy weight pressed into his wrists and ankles. He tried to move again and couldn’t.
Suddenly, reality slammed in on him. His hands and feet were bound, his limbs spread-eagled. The softness of a bed cushioned his weight, pillows under his head. Four posters, dark wood, heavy, like those found in a lord’s castle, loomed up around him. Firelight danced in the hearth, the same fireplace he remembered from the last time he was conscious. Only now, as his awareness grew, he realized he wore not a stitch of clothing, his naked, prone body covered by a sheet.
He blinked several times, realizing he wasn’t alone. A second weight pressed into the mattress beside him. Jesse tilted his head and saw ... him. St. Cyr. The blond vampire, himself fully clothed, his button down shirt opened enough to reveal most of his broad chest with its soft mat of golden hair, sat close beside him, staring down into his eyes.
However, that in itself wasn’t enough to alarm Jesse. What stirred his fear and caused him to tug at his bonds, however vainly, was the fact that St. Cyr held Jesse’s slaying knife, the shiny blade pointed directly at Jesse’s heart.
Chapter Five
Jesse remained silent, his weakened body unable to tug free of the bonds. He glanced up at the shackles, not needing to guess at their substance. Lead, of course. He sneered inwardly at himself, at how truly half-assed his plan had been, not to test himself first and make certain he could withstand lead. He’d seen other immortals develop weaknesses to certain metals, but having lived a basically peaceful existence since giving up slaying, he’d not bothered to keep himself up to date on his own weaknesses.
St. Cyr must have figured things out while Jesse slept and had chosen the shackles with that in mind.
Now Jesse was fucked. Without a kiss.
St. Cyr cleared his throat. “I suppose it would be useless to ask who sent you here to kill me.” His voice floated softly in the air, surprisingly free of menace. “Seeing as I already know.”
Jesse didn’t respond. Having his own knife pointed a few inches from his chest made him a bit extra cautious.
The vampire sighed. He turned the blade over as if fascinated by it. “Beautiful craftsmanship,” he murmured. “The immortal craftsmen are the last true artisans left in the world, I’m afraid.”
Jesse watched him, every nerve in his weak body tensed, trembling. Was St. Cyr toying with him? Tormenting him in his last moments? Vampires often did like to bat their prey around psychologically before moving in for the kill. And yet, with his empathic abilities still intact, Jesse didn’t get the sense that St. Cyr was playing a game. The sound in his voice was too ... hurt.
Well, seeing as Jesse had come to kill him, such a response was understandable. But, then again, wouldn’t St. Cyr be more angry? Ready to kill Jesse to protect himself? What was the vampire waiting for if he wasn’t tormenting Jesse before killing him?
A moment more passed and Jesse understood. His empathic understanding flooded in unimpeded. St. Cyr’s tone conveyed more than hurt. The vampire felt betrayed. Let down. When Jesse had revived, the vampire had hoped for a mate, only to learn that his potential mate was really there to kill him. In spite of the situation, Jesse sympathized with St. Cyr. He, himself, knew only too well the feeling of betrayal, having lived through it so many times himself over the centuries. He experienced another flash of sympathy, an emotion that could have been stronger in him if Hannah’s life weren’t hanging on St. Cyr’s head.
St. Cyr examined the knife a moment longer and leaned over, setting the weapon gently down on the bedside table.
Jesse heaved a deep sigh, the relief flowing in such a rush through him that he couldn’t suppress the sound he made.
The vampire looked down at him, his blue eyes smoldering in the strangest way. “I know why Noiret sent you,” he said, his tone still free of anger. He folded his arms across that broad chest. “The only thing I haven’t figured out is why he sent you. I know there’s a reason. Noiret has a perverse taste for drama and torment. He must have something you want. Something important.” St. Cyr tilted his blond head, the movement causing the firelight to glint off the thick golden tresses. “Or maybe ... someone.”
Jesse continued to watch him, the sound of his own heartbeat crashing in his ears. The knowledge that he was completely at St. Cyr’s mercy gripped him with the same agony as if he’d been forced to drink lead. Whatever the vampire wished to do to him, he could. As long as Jesse’s strength was at all hindered, he didn’t have a chance. As strong as immortals were, vampires were stronger.
Unless ... well, St. Cyr was a Coeur Eternel. That possibility existed. From his experience of CE’s Jesse knew that compassion was a force within them they couldn’t control, as strong in their very makeup as the hunger to feed.
Of course. He’d forgotten completely about that. The scar in St. Cyr’s cheek wouldn’t be there unless he was a CE. Perhaps if he’d simply insinuated himself with St. Cyr to begin w
ith, he could have explained his plight to him and gained him as an ally. Then, the two of them could have joined together and freed Hannah.
Of course, there was no guarantee of any of that. Even if such a plan had worked with St. Cyr, there was no guessing Noiret’s reaction when Jesse showed up again without St. Cyr’s head on a platter. Jesse knew one thing for certain was: you didn’t fuck around with a really old vampire. At least not if you expected to live.
All considerations and could-have-beens aside, he was in a no-win situation, no matter what. In all reality, the truth was the only hope he had. “Noiret has my sister,” he murmured. His throat was horribly dry and scratchy and the sound came out as more of a croak.
St. Cyr leaned over, poured a glass of water and held it to Jesse’s lips. Gently, he tilted the cup, his other large hand cradling the back of Jesse’s head, letting just enough water slide into Jesse’s mouth without choking him before pulling back.
Jesse swallowed, panting as the cool wetness coated his parched throat. In spite of his own condition, Jesse felt how gently the vampire was handling him and his suspicion that St. Cyr was a Coeur Eternel grew.
The flame of hope intensified. If he could feel St. Cyr’s chest, feel the thump of a heartbeat under his hand, he’d know. A CE would help him, would not be able to deny him aid once he knew. However, there was one problem ‑‑ Jesse’s hands were bound and he could not simply come out and ask St. Cyr what manner of vampire he was. If he wasn’t one of the compassionate ones, there was a frightening chance he’d take horrible advantage of Jesse’s vulnerability.
St. Cyr fed him sips of water until he nodded. The vampire set the glass down, lowered Jesse’s head to the pillow and continued to gaze at him. “What’s your sister’s name?”
Jesse ran his tongue across his lips, catching excess droplets of water before he spoke. “Hannah,” he answered softly.
Chris suppressed the shiver of desire that rippled through his body at the small movement of the immortal’s tongue. This was no time for lust. He had a larger problem at hand.
A wave of potent, searing emotion for the immortal was cresting inside him, preparing to break and flood him. From the way the immortal had answered the question, the love between him and his sister was unmistakable. Just as doubtless was the danger his sister actually was in as Noiret’s prisoner. No doubt, now that the immortal’s plan to kill him for Noiret had backfired, he was using sympathy as a ploy. Noiret certainly had informed this man that Chris was at least part CE, and even if he hadn’t, the scar was a clue, providing that the man lying naked before him knew enough about vampires to make the distinction. That would be all the knowledge he’d need to use Chris’s compassion for his own ends.
It didn’t even matter whether or not the immortal was using him, subtly seducing him for his own desperate purposes. Chris could do nothing to stop the wave of love cresting inside him. From the moment he’d turned on the sidewalk and seen the fallen man, his body shot full of bullets, Chris had felt for him. Then, after having fed on him, bonding the man to him intimately, the compassion had only grown. Not even finding the knife and figuring out the immortal’s true purpose had stopped the burgeoning emotion. Mix that sympathy with Chris’s potent loneliness, his desire for the beautiful Roman immortal, and his deep-seated hunger for a mate, and the combination was lethal. Intoxicating.
In other words, Chris was a goner. His for the taking. The only thing Chris needed to do was ensure that the immortal didn’t kill him before he understood this.
Chris fought back the urge to reach out and touch the immortal’s face. “And what is your name?” he asked softly.
The immortal swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple sliding in his throat, touching off Christian’s desire to lean down and put his lips to the supple skin just under the man’s unshaven jaw. The man’s scent, distinguishable to Christian through the dried blood still covering the man’s magnificent torso, rose to his nostrils, a heady musk that made Chris feel almost drunk.
“Jesse.”
No surprise there that the man would be named for the father of King David. “Jesse,” he repeated, hearing a dreamy quality in his own voice. “You already know mine, I presume.”
Jesse nodded. “St. Cyr.”
“I’d prefer if you called me Christian, or Chris, strange as it may seem, considering I have you bound.”
Jesse didn’t answer. He just continued to stare up at him, obviously afraid the vampire would kill him at any moment.
Chris sighed. “I think the best thing to do right now is for you to have a shower and something to eat. We can deal with our situation after that. Is that agreeable to you?”
Jesse nodded. The thought of hot water and food called to his stricken senses. He realized that St. Cyr ... Christian ... didn’t understand what had happened to his physical strength and believed Jesse still capable of killing him. Best if he believed that. God only knew how the vampire would use such knowledge if he turned out to be a Sans Ame. All Jesse could do now was try to get St. Cyr as an ally. And the best way to do that, he realized, was to give him what St. Cyr seemed to desire in the first place.
The thought sent a thrill of heat straight into Jesse’s groin. Truth was, he could stand some of that for himself. It had been a long time since he’d been with anyone and he, too, had often known the gnawing desire for a real mate, someone you knew would be there, a steady burning flame in the constant shifting of time.
St. Cyr rose from the bed and began undoing the bonds around Jesse’s ankles. The vampire’s fingertips dappled lightly against Jesse’s skin, warming him as he unwound the heavy ropes that held the lead shackles. He then produced a key from his pocket and undid the manacles. The lack of metal against Jesse’s skin was glorious and he moved his feet around, relishing the freedom. He realized soon, however, when St. Cyr re-pocketed the key and undid the bonds chaining Jesse’s arms that he wasn’t going to remove the lead around his wrists.
Instead, St. Cyr gently lowered Jesse’s hands in front of him and chained him in the front, leaving him handcuffed. “Can you sit up?” he asked, still holding the line of rope bound to the chain.
Jesse tested his muscles, feeling quite a bit restored after his lengthy sleep, though nowhere near where he needed to be. He nodded, preparing to rise to his feet. There was no sense in trying to rush. He was of no use to Hannah if he fucked up even more and got himself killed. His gaze remained on St. Cyr’s chest. He needed just a few seconds to feel the vampire’s chest. A heart beating within would tell him his course.
“All right.” St. Cyr’s large hands planted firmly but incredibly gently on Jesse’s upper arms. The warm touch softened Jesse inside, almost causing tears to flood his eyes. He blinked back the salty sting and jerked his concentration onto his only mission: to get a hand onto St. Cyr’s chest.
“Ready?”
Jesse nodded again and slid his bottom toward the edge of the soft mattress, the soles of his feet settling firmly on the luxurious Oriental carpet.
St. Cyr’s hold tightened a bit on his arms and Jesse wished the touch weren’t setting off the beginnings of an erection. He was naked and the vampire would see it immediately.
Jesse pushed off, his weight absorbed by St. Cyr’s strong hands. His legs were unsteady, weak, not only from having been filled full of lead, but from the lead shackles against his wrists, bound together in front of him.
Then he realized this was his moment.
St. Cyr took a step back, encouraging him to walk. Jess took a small step and wobbled. He brought his bound hands up, one palm landing on the left pectoral muscle of St. Cyr’s chest. The muscle twitched under his hand, warm and alive, the golden chest hairs softly caressing. The pad of his pinkie finger grazed St. Cyr’s nipple. The smooth bud tightened in response.
St. Cyr’s brow furrowed. He peered into Jesse’s eyes “Are you all right?” he asked, huskiness tingeing his voice.
Jesse’s heart lurched, certain for one terrifying moment th
at the vampire knew what he was about. He used every ounce of warrior’s discipline he possessed to keep up his façade. “Yes. I ... just need a moment.”
To his relief, St. Cyr nodded, the lines of concern in his face relaxing. “Take your time.”
The scent of the vampire’s skin and hair, a musk as intoxicating as incense filled Jesse’s nostrils. The vampire’s rugged, sensual essence seeped into every pore of Jesse’s body against his will. He closed his eyes, forcing his attention to rest solely on the chest under his hand. Several seconds had passed with no heartbeat. Several more passed and the flesh of Jesse’s palm met only with the vibrant hard muscle. Nothing underneath that could qualify as a heartbeat.
Fuck.
St. Cyr was a soulless one. A desire-feeder. The kindness he was showing could only be an act, a subtle ploy to torment Jesse in his helpless state. The vampire had fed from him, creating a deep bond between them that could never be broken. Even though Jesse was already immortal and would not change in constitution, he and St. Cyr belonged to each other.
Not that this meant St. Cyr was obligated to help him. It didn’t work that way.
“Are you ready to continue?” St. Cyr’s voice broke Jesse’s tormented musings.
Jesse’s shoulders sagged and he looked down, straining to remain squarely on his feet. “Yes.”
Without another word, the vampire maneuvered to Jesse’s side, his hip grazing Jesse’s bare groin. Jesse gritted his teeth as his cock hardened, the shaft filling rapidly, rising into its upward curve. Jesse felt St. Cyr pause, the vampire’s gaze trained Jesse’s erection, which now jutted mercilessly from his body, telling St. Cyr without words what Jesse wanted.
St. Cyr had the grace not to comment and put a supporting arm around Jesse’s shoulders, half-carrying him the short distance to the bathroom.
The room reminded Jesse of Roman baths, a place he hadn’t seen in many centuries. St. Cyr had exquisite taste in the way he’d obviously had custom marbles and stone installed, along with a shower large enough to fit five large men with two showerheads and gold fixtures. At the same time, the decadence of the décor belied the vampire’s humble mannerisms. The furnishings of the bedroom, though luxurious, were far more understated. The bathroom, on the other hand, oozed with the desire for sex and wet hot bodies plastered against each other, the scent of oils and soaps permeating the air.
The Bite Before Christmas Page 9
