Craved: A Vampire Syndicate Paranormal Romance (The Vampire Syndicate Book 2)

by Rebecca Rivard

  “There’s pressure,” I said. “Maybe not what you get as Victorine’s only spawn, but it’s there. People are always watching, waiting for me and my brothers to fuck up. Especially me. I’m the ‘face’ of the Kral Syndicate.”

  She’d tilted her head. Her silky black hair slid forward over one shoulder. “Would you walk away from it if you could?”

  “Nah. I don’t mind being the face. What sucks is people believing that’s all I am—the jet-setting playboy face. I’m a damn good negotiator. The nuts and bolts of business bore the hell out of me, but I like the challenge of putting a deal together.”

  She nodded. “So few people bother to look beneath the surface. And you are a damn good negotiator. I report to Victorine each night, and I can tell she’s impressed, even though she’d never admit it.”

  Our eyes met—and I felt seen, like Zoe had looked beneath the cocky, fun-loving surface to see the real Rafe, the one who was doing a kickass job at keeping things calm and moving forward at the negotiation table.

  Panic flickered across her face. “I’d better go.” She pushed back her chair and come to her feet.

  “Wait.” I threw some cash on the table and rose as well. “I’m leaving in a few days. I want a real date with you.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  I moved closer, fingered a lock of her hair. “Please.”

  In the low lighting, her hazel eyes gleamed gold. She moistened her lips, and my stomach tightened. She was going to refuse.

  But she’d said, “All right. Your hotel. Tomorrow at midnight. But just us. No bodyguards.”

  “I’m in the penthouse.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Gods, I’d been an idiot.

  I slapped the lid back on the chocolate box.

  I’d thought Zoe was interested in me, Rafe Kral—but she’d just wanted a walk on the wild side.

  Monday afternoon found me back in Old Montreal. This time, the print shop was open, but the crablike, gray-haired man who presided over its dusty interior refused to forge me an invitation to the Crimson Ball, even when I offered him a stupid-high sum.

  I sighed. I didn’t want to waste magic on compulsion, but I dug deep and let my vampire into my eyes. “You will make me an invitation.”

  A half hour later, I left, invitation in hand, after first wiping his mind of any memory of my visit.

  My next stop was an exclusive men’s shop to buy a tuxedo and shoes for the ball. When I exited the shop, I was smiling, a dark excitement seething in my blood.

  Ready or not, Princess. Here I come.

  A shocked look from a woman in a business suit told me I’d let my glamour waver.

  Hell. Stress and hunger were making me sloppy.

  I amped up the glamour and ducked into an entrance to the metro. I joined the crowd of commuters riding the escalator down to the Underground City, a large, brightly lit warren of shops and restaurants connected by subways and underground passages to the city above.

  You had to hand it to Victorine. The Underground City was a vampire’s idea of paradise. Humans might believe they’d designed this city below the city, but to me, it was proof of how deep the Tremblay Prima had sunk her scarlet claws into Montreal. In how many other large metropolitan areas could you go to work, watch a movie, buy a beer or a baguette, attend a concert or even go skating—and never go above ground?

  I elbowed my way onto a metro car and stood with my back to a window, the garment bag over one shoulder, the bag with my new dress shoes in my other hand.

  The car lurched into motion. I was surrounded by humans, warmed by the summer sun. Their salty-sweet scent filled my head. Some of the women wore summer dresses or tiny, throat-baring tops. Hell, as blood-hungry as I was, even the men in tank tops were tempting.

  I stared over their heads, trying not to see all that smooth, bare flesh.

  Five days I’d gone without blood. I didn’t even dare buy blood-wine for fear of drawing the Tremblay Syndicate’s attention. Instead, I’d made do with rare meat.

  And each time I used vampire magic, I grew weaker. Powering a glamour, traveling in the shadow dimension, compelling information from humans—they all took energy.

  If I didn’t feed soon, my magic could fail at a crucial moment. But I couldn’t risk it; vampires have a sixth sense about these things. Even if I lured a human back to my rented apartment, there was a chance that aTremblay vampire would sniff her out and realize a stranger had fed from her.

  My stomach growled. I swallowed, tried to ignore it.

  The blood craving raised its seductive head.

  Feed. Just a taste…

  The metro stopped. A few people got off, but even more shoved their way on. A young woman in a red tank top and capris sank into the seat in front of me.

  My mouth watered. I zeroed in on the side of her neck and the blood I heard pulsing through her carotid.

  It would be so easy to cut her from the herd, lure her into one of the Underground City’s convenient dark nooks.

  I wrenched my gaze away.

  Get control of yourself, damn it.

  I could almost see my father’s lieutenant, Tomas Mraz, shaking his square blond head. Mraz never let me and my brothers forget we were dhampir, that we were weaker physically, with less control over our magic. That to compete in the vampire world, we had to work our asses off.

  The metro jolted back into motion. I braced my feet apart and tried not to stare at the pretty human, but her scent wafted around me, warm and so, so sweet.

  My nostrils twitched. Feed.

  I clenched my jaw and thought of Zaq.

  Aboveground, the bars and restaurants of Rue St. Denis were packed. People spilled out into the sidewalk tables, sipping beer or nursing soup-bowl-size cups of coffee. Through the open doors came the jangle of music overlaid with laughter and rapid French.

  I turned down the street that led to my rented apartment. I was nearly there when I received a text.

  I glanced at the screen, surprised to see it had come from my father. He’d gone dark when he left for Paris. He suspected we had a mole, someone high in the Kral Syndicate hierarchy who was feeding intel to the slayers. He’d ordered both me and my brother Gabriel to keep communication to a minimum.

  But Father had attached his personal code, so I knew the message was legit.

  Go home. The woman is of no use to us.

  Disappointment stabbed through me. I didn’t want to leave Montreal without seeing Zoe, even if it was just so I could tell her to her face what I thought of her.

  But that was selfish. Father wouldn’t have called me back to New York if he didn’t have new intel about Zaq. Maybe he needed me somewhere else.

  Will do, I typed back, and picked up my pace.

  I hadn’t flown directly to Montreal—that would’ve been suicide. The Tremblay Syndicate would’ve been on me like fleas on a dog. Instead, I’d taken a flight to Toronto and rented a motorcycle for the five-hour drive to Montreal. If I was lucky, I could catch a late flight out of Toronto and be in New York a little after midnight.

  Right before I reached the brownstone, my phone pinged again. This time it was from Gabriel.

  You are needed in New York ASAP.

  I frowned. The code was Gabriel’s, but it appeared to come from the number my father had just texted me with.

  The hairs on my nape stirred.

  The phone pinged again.

  You there?

  I hurriedly typed a response. G? That you?

  Of course.

  Suspicion crawled up my spine. Something felt off. That wasn’t how Gabriel talked—or texted. He’d say something like, WTF—who else could it be, you ass?

  Only five people in the Kral Syndicate had access to my current phone number: Gabriel; my father, Karoly Kral; his lieutenant Tomas; and two high-ranking enforcers. All trusted members of Father’s inner circle.

  I was beginning to think the first message hadn’t been from
my father, and I sure as hell didn’t believe the second had been from Gabriel.

  Suspicion turned into full-blow alarm. I turned off my phone, shoved it into my pocket and kept moving past the brownstone, zigzagging downside streets every few blocks until I was a half mile from the rented apartment. Ducking into an alley, I removed the SIM card and tossed it into the bushes. Just to be sure, I ground the phone to pieces beneath my heel and dropped the mangled bits into a trash can.

  To return to the brownstone, I slipped into the shadow dimension and waited outside the building until someone exited so I could enter while still in the shadows.

  My apartment was the only one on the third floor. I dropped back into the physical world to unlock the door. The effort had drained me and left me a little dizzy—a side effect of spending too long in the shadow world, especially with my magic at a low level.

  I bent over, sucking breaths, until my head cleared, then moved cautiously through the apartment. Everything was as I’d left it—the blinds closed, nothing out of place. If someone had entered while I was out, they were damn good.

  I tossed the garment bag and shoes in a closet and grabbed my laptop. Even using a special password and Krals-only backdoor that Father had had the techs build into the Syndicate’s programs, it took me a good two hours to hack into our files, taking care to conceal any identifier that could be traced back to me.

  It took another few hours to be completely sure, but I confirmed that Zaq was still missing, and my father in Paris, searching for him.

  Goddamn it to Hades. Someone was trying to get me back to New York, or away from Zoe—or both.

  It had to be the mole. If only I knew who—and why.

  I closed the files and ran a program scrubbing any indication I’d accessed them.

  It was after midnight. I grabbed a cold burger from the fridge and ate one-handed while I dug out a new phone, inserted a SIM card, and texted Gabriel, careful to attach my personal code.

  Dad’s right. We have a mole. Trust no one.

  Gabriel replied almost immediately.

  Got it. How are things on your end?

  I rubbed my eyes. I’d give anything to talk this out with my oldest brother, but until we knew who the mole was, I was afraid to tell even him too much.

  Not because I didn’t trust him. He’d go to the wall for me, and vice versa.

  But someone close to us was a traitor. Even communicating by text was risky. I’d have to wait until we could hash this out in person.

  My return message was short and bland.

  I have the situation in hand. Will be in touch.

  I turned off the phone and stared into the darkness. Picturing Zaq in the photo that had been sent to Father with the message, “One down.”

  Zaq’s wrists had been cuffed with silver and attached to a concrete block wall. He’d stared proudly into the camera, his T-shirt ripped, his lower face covered by a dark scruff.

  The scruff couldn’t hide the feverish sheen to his eyes—or the puncture wounds on his bruised throat. A vampire had drunk from my brother without permission. The bastards hadn’t just kidnapped him, they’d made him into a fucking blood slave.

  Thinking about it made me a little crazy. My fangs extended. My vampire-half wanted to rip a hole in the very fabric of the universe, if that’s what it took to get Zaq away from those monsters.

  He and Gabriel weren’t just my brothers, they were my best friends. We’d been a trio from the day I’d first been able to toddle after them.

  The pureblood vampire spawn had never understood what it was like for me and my brothers, because they were only children. Pick on one Kral, and you picked on all of us—and together, we could make those faster, stronger young vampires eat dirt.

  As the youngest and smallest brother—at least, until my late teens when I’d shot up to my full height—I’d taken more than my share of abuse, and my pretty-boy looks hadn’t helped. High cheekbones and long lashes aren’t an asset when you’re a twelve-year-old boy.

  But my big brothers had always had my back.

  Which is why I’d do anything I had to do to save Zaq. Anything at all.

  3

  ZOE

  “There.” Lainey Q, stylist to the stars, finished my makeup and spun my stool so I faced my vanity mirror. She picked up a brush and drew it through my straight, shoulder-length black hair.

  “And I think some choppy edges…” She brandished a razor blade.

  “No.” I held up a hand. “I like it how it is.”

  “No?” The stylist’s dark brows climbed into her carefully mussed silver bob. Lainey Q was an Instagram influencer with over five million fashionistas following her every pronouncement. You didn’t tell her no.

  Even if my mother was paying her double her usual fee to make me over for the Crimson Ball.

  I met her eyes in the mirror. “No.”

  “But it’s the Crimson Ball, and you’re the Tremblay Princess.”

  That’s how Lainey talked—in captions. I could almost see the hashtags: #tremblayprincess #crimsonball #styleinfluencer

  “Everybody will be waiting to see what style you’re rocking this year. I won’t have them saying you look like last year’s—” she crinkled her nose—“leftovers.”

  Last year’s leftovers?

  I eyed my plain, easy-to-care-for hair. “Looks fine to me,” I muttered.

  “How about some bangs?”

  I shrugged. She was the expert, after all. “Fine—but only the bangs.”

  Lainey whipped out a towel and draped it around my shoulders. She turned the vanity stool so I faced her and slashed at the front quarter of my hair. Ragged black tufts rained down around me.

  “There.” She removed the towel and spun me back to face the mirror. “Chic but edgy.”

  “Not bad,” I admitted.

  “It’s perfect. You’re all eyes and cheekbones now. Trés badass, like an assassin working undercover as a model. It’s that mix of Russian and French.”

  I eyed my reflection. I did look kind of badass, which was preferable to my usual Ice-Princess look. Cool, untouchable, virginal—with an emphasis on the virginal. Which was just sad for a woman about to turn twenty-seven.

  “You’re right. Thank you.”

  “Told you.” Lainey’s bubblegum-pink lips formed a smug smile.

  The razor blade moved toward my hair again. I shot out my hand, stopping her. “That’s enough.”

  A sigh. “Zoe.”

  “No. We’re done here.” I dug my fingers into her wrist. The razor clattered to the marble floor.

  Lainey hesitated. We both knew she answered to my mother, not me. It was Victorine who’d decided my image needed an upgrade, just like she’d picked out my dress for the ball.

  “You may leave now,” I said in my best vampire-princess voice.

  “No problem.” Her look was sympathetic. She picked up the razor and set it on the vanity. “But Prima Tremblay wants to see you in the dress.”

  It was my turn to sigh. For the first couple of days, having Lainey around giving me a makeover had been fun. But it had quickly gotten old.

  I knew as well as Lainey that Victorine had demanded to see the entire outfit—a trial run for the masquerade ball Thursday, when everything had to be perfect or she’d be in a cold rage for days afterward.

  “Let’s get this over with,” I told Lainey, who retrieved the dress from the walk-in closet. I slipped out of my tank top and yoga pants and she dropped the silky white thing over my head.

  “There. Très chic.” The stylist was from Korea by way of Los Angeles, but in the two weeks she’d come to Montreal, she’d started littering her conversation with French phrases.

  I examined my outfit in the full-length, antique silver mirror to the right of the vanity. The dress was beautiful, and so was my new hairdo. I hardly recognized myself. Which was the problem.

  “Well?” Lainey asked.

  I ran a hand down the short skirt and managed a small smi
le. I had very few friends, and besides, I liked Lainey. It wasn’t her fault my mother had control issues.

  “It’s great. You’re a genius.”

  She pursed her lips. “Something simple for jewelry. A thin gold necklace with a few strands. Maybe a gold armband?”

  “I’ll let you decide.”

  “Awesome.” She gave an excited clap as if the jewelry was for her. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

  “I’m sure I will. And pick up something for yourself, too—as a thank you.”

  “Seriously?”

  I nodded, and her face lit up. She danced out of the room, still thanking me.

  I heaved a breath. Alone. For a few minutes, anyway.

  I went to a casement window. The sun was setting over the river. Farther off, the Montreal skyline was a vibrant smudge against the dusky sky, and in the grounds below, the vampire’s night garden designed by my father was in full bloom. Lush white flowers—lilies, hydrangeas, roses—glimmered in the twilight.

  The garden’s centerpiece was a large bronze fountain guarded by a trio of snarling bears, their backs forming the base. Victorine had erected the fountain as a memorial to her Russian mate, Mikhail Romanov, the final casualty in the Tremblay/Kral blood feud—and the reason that for her, my assignation with Rafe Kral had been a double betrayal.

  Because Rafe wasn’t just any dhampir. He was the son of Karoly Kral, the vampire who’d staked my father—and her mate.

  In the window’s specially darkened glass, the white dress made me appear almost ghostlike against the garden below. The woman everybody saw, but nobody really knew.

  Behind me, my bedroom seemed even colder than usual, the black-and-white theme sucking at my soul. Victorine’s taste, not mine.

  White walls, black trim, white curtains. My bed was a heavy black wood that I hated, the coverings black silk with embroidered white diamonds. Even the pictures on the wall were black and white.

  The rest of the suite was the same, with white leather couches and inlaid ebony tables and chairs in the living room.