Blood Assassin

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Yes, I saw him earlier,” Serra said, recalling a brief glimpse of Arel as she’d entered the gym. He was looking as fine as ever. “This might be his lucky night.”

  “Good.” Callie brushed a quick kiss over Serra’s cheek before she was heading out of the kitchen. “Just remember, my door is always open.”

  Serra waited until her friend had left the apartment before she aimlessly returned to the living room.

  If she truly intended to go out for the evening she needed a shower and some quality time spent on her mani-pedi, but she found it nearly impossible to stir up the necessary enthusiasm.

  With a grimace, she instead reached to pluck the forgotten package off the table. Maybe her parents’ gift would lift her drooping spirits.

  Untying the bow, she made swift work of the wrapping paper to find a flat jewelry box. She smiled. Her mother knew how she loved her bling.

  Almost as much as she loved designer footwear.

  Flipping off the lid, she felt an odd chill inch down her spine as she reached for the silver locket that was snuggled in a square of cotton.

  A frown touched her brow. The simple heart-shaped necklace wasn’t really her style, which was strange, considering her mother usually knew her so well.

  She pulled the locket from the box and studied it in confusion. Maybe it was a family heirloom, she at last decided, running a finger over the edge of the locket to search for the latch that would open it. Didn’t lockets usually have pictures inside? There. She felt the tiny lever and pressed it. But instead of popping open, the stupid thing poked a hole through her skin.

  With a hiss she stuck her finger into her mouth, sucking the drop of blood that welled from the tiny wound.

  Damn. Heirloom or not, she didn’t want anything to do with the locket.

  Debating the best place to hide the thing until she had to wear it when her parents came for their next visit, Serra was distracted when she abruptly sensed the approach of an unexpected visitor.

  Fane.

  What the hell?

  She was in no mood for another round of “good-byes.”

  Especially when a clammy sweat was suddenly coating her skin and a distracting buzz was beginning to fill her mind.

  Damn tequila.

  For a frantic moment she considered the possibility of scurrying into her shower. Fane had the superior senses of a Sentinel; he would hear the water and know she was unavailable.

  Then she squared her shoulders and told herself to stop being a coward.

  In a few hours he would be gone. Surely she could pretend she didn’t give a damn until then?

  Licking her dry lips, Serra pulled open the door and confronted the current pain-in-her-neck.

  He’d showered and changed since she’d last seen him. The scent of his clean male skin teased at her senses, while the tight muscle shirt that was tucked into his green khakis emphasized the beauty of his sculpted muscles.

  She had a sudden vision of licking her way over the swirling tattoos exposed by his shirt before the buzzing in her head overrode the treacherous thought.

  “Fane, what do you want?” she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temple.

  “I didn’t like how we left things.”

  She shrugged, holding on to the door as a dizzy spell nearly sent her to her knees. Damn. How much had she had to drink?

  “If you want me to pretend I’m happy you’re leaving then you’re wasting your time,” she muttered, the words coming out with an unexpected slur.

  Fane frowned, studying her with a searching gaze. “Have you been drinking?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  His jaw tightened, but his expression remained carved from granite. “Can I come in?”

  She hesitated. It was more than a reluctance to spend time with Fane. The weird buzzing in her head was slowing to become a persistent murmur. As if someone was whispering directly in her mind.

  Obviously she needed to spend some time working on the shields that protected her from random conversations that floated on the psychic plane.

  Sensing Fane’s growing concern, Serra heaved a sigh and stepped back, giving a mocking wave of her hand.

  “Please . . . enter.”

  Stepping over the threshold, Fane glanced down at the locket that was still clutched in her fingers.

  “What is that?”

  “A gift.”

  Without thought Serra slid the chain over her head to allow the locket to nestle against her cleavage.

  There was a burst of heat as Fane narrowed his gaze. Anger? Jealousy? Lust?

  Impossible to say.

  “From who?” he growled.

  She took a sharp step back. “None of your business.”

  His lips parted, as if he intended to argue. Then, muttering a curse, he gave a regretful shake of his head.

  “Serra, I’m sorry. I . . .” His words were cut off as she turned away, her fingers rubbing her temple as she struggled against persistent murmurs. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Of course he couldn’t leave it there.

  Fane might not allow her any place in his life, but he was happy enough to shove his handsome nose in hers.

  “You seem distracted.”

  “You’re not the only one who has a life and duties.”

  “Serra.” He gently touched her shoulder. “Look at me.”

  She hissed at the pleasure that seared through her, desperately wanting to turn and bury herself against his hard body. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she was certain being in his arms would make it all better.

  A dangerous illusion, she sharply reminded herself.

  Fane didn’t want her in his arms.

  Not now. Not ever.

  “Go away, Fane,” she commanded, shrugging off his hand.

  “You’re in pain.”

  “I’m tired.” She grimaced, not about to admit she was feeling increasingly queasy. “I want you to leave so I can lie down.”

  “Do you need a healer?”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake.” She whirled back to stab him with a furious glare. Was he deliberately trying to piss her off? “Just go.”

  He studied her for a long moment. A romantic fool might think he was trying to preserve his last memory of her.

  But she wasn’t a romantic fool. Not anymore.

  Perhaps sensing her fierce need to have him gone, Fane gave a slow, solemn dip of his head.

  “Good-bye, Serra.”

  She didn’t bother with good-bye as he turned and left her apartment.

  They’d said everything that needed to be said.

  At midafternoon the corridors of Valhalla were mostly empty. A good thing since Fane was in the mood to knock aside anyone stupid enough to get in his way.

  Why had he gone to Serra?

  He knew that she was hurting. And that he was the cause.

  But the memory of her wounded expression as he’d walked away from her earlier had haunted him until he’d been driven into seeking her out. As if he could somehow ease her pain.

  Idiot.

  Clearly his decision to leave Valhalla for Tibet was a good one.

  All he’d done was make matters worse.

  Taking the elevator down to the apartments reserved for Sentinels, he entered the sparse space and methodically began to pack his few belongings.

  Unlike Serra who’d created a home that reflected her strong, unique personality, he kept his own apartment supplied with nothing more than the bare necessities. A bed, a couch, and a kitchen table. Except for his workroom. Everything in there had been handcrafted from the tools he used to sculpt his figurines to the workbench where he spent countless hours.

  That was the one place he could go to find the peace denied to him in most of his life.

  He’d packed his few clothes and was just placing the last of his tools in a heavy crate to take with him when a knock on his door interrupted the silence.

  His first impu
lse was to ignore the visitor. Protracted good-byes weren’t on his agenda. But catching a familiar scent, he realized this was one farewell he couldn’t avoid.

  Moving through the apartment, he pulled open the front door to reveal the small, red-haired necromancer who’d been in his care for the past decade.

  His expression softened. “Callie.”

  She smiled, reaching up to touch his neck in a gesture that revealed the depth of their friendship.

  “How are you?” she asked softly.

  He grimaced. Only the two of them would ever comprehend the bond that had formed when he’d been chosen as her guardian. Or the wrenching sense of loss when the bond had been broken.

  “Adjusting,” he said.

  She wrinkled her nose, moving her hand to lay it over her heart that now belonged to Duncan O’Conner.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Fane narrowed his gaze, suddenly wondering if there was more to this visit than a chance to say good-bye.

  “The bastard is treating you right?”

  She rolled her eyes. “He has a name. And he’s treating me very right.”

  He hurriedly held up a hand. “No details, little one,” he muttered.

  It wasn’t jealousy. But Callie was like a sister to him. He found it impossible to think of her with any man.

  She flashed a teasing grin. “Deal.”

  “If you don’t need me to beat Duncan to a bloody pulp, then what are you doing here?”

  Her smile abruptly disappeared, concern darkening the sapphire of her eyes. “I was hoping that you knew where Serra is.”

  Fane froze, his instincts on full alert. “Why would I know?”

  “Fane.” Callie gave a chiding shake of her head. “You can fool most people, but not me.”

  His jaw clenched. He didn’t share his feelings for Serra with anyone. Not even Callie.

  “I spoke with her earlier. She said she was tired. Have you checked her rooms?”

  “Of course.”

  Fane frowned. “Why are you concerned?”

  “She told Arel she was going to meet him in the dining hall, but she never showed.”

  Jealousy ripped through Fane. The younger Sentinel had been panting after Serra for years. He’d even managed to lure her into a brief affair that had tormented Fane. It was one thing to tell Serra he wanted her to find a man to love, and another to watch her being seduced by a male half his age.

  He wasn’t a damned saint.

  “Maybe she changed her mind,” he said, taking pleasure in the thought of the arrogant cub being stood up.

  “She would have let him know,” Callie insisted. Although cell phones didn’t work, there were landlines placed throughout Valhalla that made communication easy. “Arel came to me when he searched Valhalla and couldn’t find her.”

  Abruptly Fane remembered Serra’s strange behavior when he’d last seen her.

  At the time he’d put it down to anger and wounded pride. Now he had to wonder if there hadn’t been something else wrong.

  “You said that you tried her apartment?”

  Callie nodded. “She didn’t answer the door.”

  “She could be asleep.”

  “No, I have a key.” Callie bit her bottom lip. “I went to check on her but she wasn’t there. And—”

  Fane ruthlessly crushed the fear that threatened to cloud his years of training.

  If something had happened to Serra she needed a warrior, not the man who’d wanted her for longer than she would ever know.

  “Tell me,” he commanded.

  “There was a mess in her bedroom.”

  Shit. He gripped the edge of the door, the wood cracking beneath the pressure.

  “A mess?” he barked. “Like she’d been attacked?”

  “No, her clothes were thrown around like she’d been packing in a hurry.”

  Oh. A portion of Fane’s fear eased.

  If she’d packed a bag then there was a chance this was nothing more than a misunderstanding.

  “She has a home south of here,” he pointed out. Most psychics had private homes in isolated areas where they could get away from the “psychic noise” caused by living in a crowded community. “Maybe she was going there.”

  “Without a word to anyone? I even called Inhera to see if Serra had been called away on an assignment.”

  Inhera was the leader of the psychics and was responsible for scheduling their duties.

  Fane grimaced. “She might have felt a need to leave Valhalla that had nothing to do with her job.”

  Callie stabbed him with an accusing glare. “I know that she was upset, and why. But Serra has never just disappeared. She knows how worried I would be.”

  Fane gave a slow nod.

  Callie was right.

  Even if she was pissed as hell with him, Serra wouldn’t leave without gaining approval from Inhera.

  And more importantly, without saying something to Callie and her foster parents.

  “Damn.”

  He spun on his heel to cross to the far side of his living room where he laid his hand on a scanner. It took only a second for his fingerprints to be accepted and for a panel in the wall to slide open to reveal a hidden room that was built into all the Sentinels’ apartments.

  “Fane?” Callie murmured in confusion, following him into the room and gazing at the high-tech equipment in fascination.

  It couldn’t compare to the command center at the lowest level of Valhalla, but it was built with steel walls lined with powerful computers, which were linked to satellite feeds that kept track of government agencies. They also ran surveillance monitors.

  Including surveillance for Valhalla.

  Going to the nearest computer he tapped on the keys to bring up the camera that monitored the hallway outside Serra’s apartment.

  “I want to check the tapes,” he muttered, clicking the rewind until he reached the point of Serra’s first entering her apartment.

  “Why?” Callie demanded.

  “There was something bothering her.”

  He watched as she opened her door and then bent down to pick up something off the ground. What was it? He zoomed in. A gift-wrapped package. Was it the locket he’d seen her holding?

  She entered the apartment and closed the door. He zoomed past Callie’s visit and his own arrival and abrupt departure. After that there was . . . nothing.

  No one entered the hallway. Not until Serra’s door was opened and she walked away from her apartment with a suitcase clutched in her hand.

  Once again he zoomed in, a cold trickle of sweat inching down his spine. There was no mistaking the pallor of her skin and the tightness of her features. Twice she reached up to rub her temple, as if she were in pain.

  “Goddammit,” he growled, clicking to another camera to watch her progress through Valhalla. “I should have insisted she tell me.”

  Callie swore beneath her breath. “Considering you were more than likely what was bothering her, I doubt she would have shared.”

  He accepted the familiar pang of guilt, he deserved it, but he gave a shake of his head at the thought this was about his decision to leave.

  Watching Serra take a tunnel to the outer garage and halting next to her personal SUV, Fane scowled in confusion.

  She walked past a dozen friends who’d all tried to get her attention, her expression unfocused and her movements lacking her usual grace.

  That wasn’t like Serra.

  Then she opened the back of the SUV and shoved in her vintage Louis Vuitton suitcase that had been a gift from her parents. Callie gasped in disbelief.

  “Okay, that’s it. There’s something really, really wrong,” she muttered. “Last year Serra nearly ripped off the head of a bellboy who tried to touch the handle of her bag without gloves on. She would never toss it around like a sack of garbage.”

  Fane was moving before he even realized he’d made his decision.

  “I’ll find her.”

  Chapter Three

>   The St. Louis penthouse office was exactly what was expected of a successful businessman.

  Consuming the twentieth floor, the office had three walls that were decorated with priceless abstract paintings, high-tech computers, and a dozen flat-screen monitors tuned to the stock markets from around the world. The fourth wall was made entirely of glass and offered a stunning view of the Gateway Arch. The furnishings were a sleek black and steel design and arranged over the marble white floor.

  It was polished. Discreet. Expensive.

  A perfect setting for the elegant CEO of Cavrilo International.

  A tall, slender man, Bas Cavrilo had pale, delicately carved features that might have been pretty if not for the hint of ruthlessness in the line of his jaw and the arrogant thrust of his narrow nose. His dark hair was cut short and brushed away from his lean face, emphasizing his light brown eyes and the lush curve of his lips.

  Currently attired in a charcoal gray Armani suit, he stood near the window, gazing down at the streets that were nearly empty of traffic.

  At five in the morning, most people were still snug in their beds.

  At least most normal people were snug in their beds.

  But Bas was about as far from normal as you could get.

  A humorless smile stretched his lips. The world was slowly beginning to accept the presence of high-bloods. Valhalla could be thanked for that. After centuries of being reviled as monsters, they’d learned the value of a top-notch PR blitz. There was nothing like giving a gloss of exotic mystery to a group of people. And while there would always be people who considered them as “freaks” and “mutants” the humans no longer huddled in fear when they heard a high-blood was near.

  Stupid humans.

  Valhalla might have given them the image of harmless, law-abiding citizens, but the truth was far less innocent.

  No matter how hard the Mave might try to tame them, there were always those high-bloods who refused to be neutered.

  Men like him, and those who followed him.

  They remained monsters. And were damned proud of the fact.

  Of course, he’d learned from the Mave’s success. People were laughably easy to fool. An expensive office, a closet filled with thousand-dollar suits, and a Lamborghini and they were happy to accept that he was just another human businessman.