by Jenna Black
Why did she always find herself surrounded by fucked up people? Why couldn’t she find someone nice and sane and well-adjusted to spend time with?
She swallowed her tears and took a deep, shuddering breath. She knew the answer to her own question. No matter how much she told herself that she’d grown up, and wised up, she still had this ridiculous hero complex. She still wanted to save the world. Some childish, wistful part of her soul still thought that if somehow she could save someone else she cared about, it would make up for not having been able to save her mother.
Before she could sink deeper into her funk, her cell phone rang. She leapt from the couch and dove for her purse, hoping to silence the damn thing before it woke Gabriel. Aside from the fact that he probably needed the sleep, she didn’t want to face him right now, when her soul felt so raw.
It took three rings before she dug the phone out from the bottom of her purse, but at least the bedroom door was closed. She moved to the other end of the room from the door and flipped the phone open.
“Hello?” she said, sotto voce.
“Hi, Jez. It’s Drake.”
She frowned. He wasn’t exactly someone she’d have expected to call her.
Had Eli told everyone that she was Gabriel’s?
“May I speak to Gabriel?” Drake asked, answering her question.
“Um, he’s asleep right now. I’d rather not wake him.”
Drake paused. “It’s two-thirty in the morning. What’s he doing sleeping at this hour?”
Jez felt the color rising to her face, then shook her head at herself for being embarrassed. Her Gram had treated her like the Whore of Babylon when she was still a virgin, but that didn’t mean having slept with Gabriel made her a slut.
Geez, she kept telling herself she’d escaped the poisonous influence, but obviously that was wishful thinking. She forced a smile she didn’t feel, and hoped it translated into her voice.
“Let’s just say I tired him out.”
“Oh,” was Drake’s brief, unembarrassed reply. “Do you think there’s any chance you could talk him into calling me when he wakes up?”
She raised her eyebrows at that. “Why? So you can lead him into some kind of trap so Carolyn can take a shot at him?”
There was a long hesitation before Drake spoke again. “It’s been pointed out to me that I’m not really in a position to throw stones. Eli told us what you’d learned about Gabriel’s victims. He’s declared hunting Camille and di Cesare the more urgent mission at this moment. But you and I both know the Guardians aren’t equal to this challenge, and Gabriel probably is.”
Anger surged through her veins. “Oh, so yesterday it was ‘off with his head,’ and today, he could be useful so you’ll generously allow him to live?” Maybe Eli and the Guardians really were as hypocritical as Gabriel thought. “Go to Hell, Drake. And right this moment, I wouldn’t even mind if you took Eli with you!”
She snapped the phone closed and turned off the ringer. Then she jumped like a cartoon cat at the sound of clapping hands.
She whirled around to see Gabriel standing stark naked in the bedroom doorway. He was grinning at her, his gorgeous gray-green eyes twinkling with amusement.
He looked good enough to eat. He’d taken a shower between lovemaking sessions and hadn’t bothered to put any product in his hair. It lay soft and silky against his skull, so much more attractive than his usual porcupine look. And his body! Lean and nicely toned, with the powerful legs of an athlete, his harsher angles smoothed by a dusting of very light blond hair. His cock jerked to life at her visual inspection, though he made no sexual overture.
“My little hellcat,” he said with a fond smile, though it didn’t take long for the smile to harden around the edges. “Have you changed your mind about Saint Eli?”
Her heart lurched in her chest. She was pissed at Eli right now for not seeing that on the scale of good and evil, Gabriel was no worse than Drake. Well, she mentally amended, perhaps a little worse, with that cruel streak of his, but not so much worse that he deserved to die while Drake deserved to live. But despite all that, she still respected Eli, respected his mission, and respected his judgment about everyone except Gabriel.
She shrugged as casually as possible and turned her back as she plopped the phone down on the coffee table.
“He’s being a hypocrite,” she said, “happy to avail himself of your services when convenient.”
“But that was Drake on the phone, not Eli.”
“Yeah. So?”
Apparently not at all worried about what people in neighboring buildings might see through the open curtains, he trotted into the living room, still naked. “So, Eli would never in a million years ask for my help. He may be a hypocrite, but he’s also a stubborn ass. He’s already turned down my offer, and he’s not going to change his mind. I suspect our friend Drake has something else in mind.”
She bit her lip. Possibly true. But it was also possible that it was a trick. “So, are you going to call him back?”
Gabriel’s eyes scanned up and down her body, and no amount of anxiety about Drake’s motivations could stop the pulse of desire that throbbed between her legs the moment he looked at her.
The corners of his mouth tipped upward, as did other portions of his anatomy. “I might,” he conceded, moving toward her at a predatory stalk. “But it isn’t my first priority at the moment.”
She giggled and put a chair between herself and him. “What, again?” she asked incredulously. “I’ve had battery-operated toys that have less stamina than you!”
She reached across their psychic connection and politely knocked on the doors of his mind. He invited her in with no hesitation, and she saw just how much he liked the image of her with her battery-operated toys. Then his mind filled with other images, creative uses that she’d never have thought of herself, and heat flooded her from head to toe.
“Tomorrow, we’re going vibrator-shopping,” she informed him, looking forward to enjoying the wicked possibilities.
“Anything you say, my sweet,” he agreed amiably. Then his power wrapped around her, lifted her off her feet, and sailed her straight into his waiting arms.
18
BARTOLOMEO’S MORTAL SERVANTS HAD been busy during the daylight hours, renting a fixer-upper of a warehouse on the banks of the Delaware. The place was a mess, with cracked windows, rusted fixtures, and crumbling mortar. Pigeons had made themselves at home in the rafters, leaving their telltale calling cards splattered everywhere.
But the warehouse was a standalone building, and none of the nearby buildings were exactly bustling centers of activity. Also, there were several convenient observation posts available, so that someone could watch the building on all sides if necessary. A watcher could even see the river side of the building, thanks to a helpful pier that jutted out into the water about a block away.
The perfect setting for a trap. Now, it was time to bait it.
Camille sat in the back seat of the car while Bartolomeo’s entourage surveyed the surroundings to make sure no prying mortal eyes would see them. Camille could have saved them the trouble—a psychic probe had shown the area completely deserted except for themselves—but Bartolomeo seemed to think the inspection necessary. Perhaps simply because it appealed to his sense of self-importance.
Between them sat the child that Camille had lured away from the playground last night. Her hands were bound behind her, and a gag cut tightly into the corners of her mouth. The Maître had his arm around her, as if trying to comfort her, but Camille knew he was merely soaking in the luxury of her fear. While he lacked the equipment to indulge in his own particular brand of perversion, he had enjoyed the experience vicariously through one of his fledglings.
Disgusting creatures, both of them, but she would tolerate them a little longer. Just long enough to get Eli where she wanted him.
When his entourage declared the coast clear, Bartolomeo, Camille, and the child made their way into the stinking, stiflingly ho
t warehouse. The sun had gone down two hours ago, but with no climate control, the building had absorbed the heat and held it trapped. Sweat dewed Camille’s face moments after she’d stepped inside.
The inside of the warehouse was empty, save for the few items Bartolomeo had ordered his servants to acquire. In the center of the floor sat a four-poster bed, each post fitted with adjustable restraints. Bartolomeo dragged the struggling girl to the bed. He could have stilled her struggles with glamour, but chose brute force instead. The little whimpering sounds that escaped the girl’s throat made the minions’ eyes glow with pleasure, and made Camille vaguely sick to her stomach.
If she had her way, they would take a few pictures to send to Gabriel, then they would put the child out of her misery. But somehow, she didn’t think she would be getting her way.
When the child was secured, Bartolomeo lay down on the bed beside her, propping his head on his hand and draping one of his legs over her midsection. Tears drenched her cheeks, and her eyes showed white all around.
Camille swallowed her revulsion and flipped open her camera phone. The lighting was terrible, even with the spotlight the minions focused on the bed. Bartolomeo grabbed the girl’s chin and turned her head to face the camera. Camille snapped the picture and was pleased to discover it came out just fine, despite the poor lighting.
Then, Bartolomeo summoned his pedophile fledgling to the bed, just to prove this was more than an empty threat. The fledgling positioned himself on top of the girl, then leaned his face closed to hers and licked her cheek. Camille snapped another picture, this one more heart-rending than the last with the child’s face squinched up in disgust. She nodded in satisfaction.
“Yes, I’m quite sure these pictures will bring my son running to the rescue,” she said.
Bartolomeo rolled off the bed. His fledgling remained behind.
Camille took the Maître’s offered elbow and let him lead her from the building. “How long do you plan to keep Gabriel alive once we have him?” she asked.
Bartolomeo laughed, an evil sound if ever there was one. “Until he’s broken or I’m tired of playing, whichever comes first.”
She touched her tongue to her upper lip, debating briefly whether this was the time to discuss the idea this trap for Gabriel had spawned in her head. But Bartolomeo was in an uncommonly jolly mood at the moment, so she decided to proceed.
“I have a proposition for you,” she said.
Playing the gentleman, he opened the car door for her. She slid in, and he followed. His driver closed the door, then rounded the front of the car to take his own seat.
“What might that be?” the Maitre asked.
“In his own way, Eli is as sentimental as Gabriel. Actually, more so. I’m sure Gabriel’s presence in his city has caused him no end of annoyance, and I’m sure he’s doing his best to hunt him down and kill him.”
“Your point being?”
“I’m getting there. Eli had the chance to kill Gabriel once before and found he couldn’t do it. I suspect he’d find the will to finish things now. But I also suspect it would twist a knife in his gut to see Gabriel suffer.”
Bartolomeo made an impatient sound. “I thought you said you were getting to the point.”
I’d get there faster if you’d stop interrupting, she thought. “I believe the same trap we’re setting for Gabriel might work for Eli. We could torture Gabriel for years, and he could survive anything we did to him. Heal any injury we caused him.” She smiled her most unpleasant smile. “Regrow anything we cut off.”
Bartolomeo’s eyes glowed at that thought.
“Eli might be able to stand by and see Gabriel killed. But were we to show him evidence of just what we were doing to his precious boy, I suspect he’d throw all his scruples to the side and come charging to the rescue.”
“Hmm,” Bartolomeo mused. “Is he really that much of a fool?”
She thought about it a moment. Remembered all the trouble Eli had gone through over the centuries to protect Gabriel, even though they had never exactly seen eye to eye. And she knew in her heart that Eli could never stand to see his son suffer, not if he thought he could do something about it.
“Yes, Maître. He is. And he’s so sure of his own power that even if he knows he’s walking into a trap, he will firmly believe that he can escape it.”
Bartolomeo nodded. “The idea has possibilities.”
Camille wasn’t sure that was a “yes,” but for the moment she would bide her time. They had to catch Gabriel first. Then, she could concentrate on her real target.
WHEN DRAKE CALLED JEZ’s phone for the third time in two hours, Gabriel finally decided to talk to him. He could see from the look in her eyes when she handed him the phone that Jez had long ago gotten over her fit of pique about the request for aid and was now hoping Gabriel would ride in on his white horse to save the day.
It showed how clouded her judgment was.
“So,” he said into the phone, watching Jez out of the corner of his eye, “you’ve gotten tired of being Eli’s little yes-man.”
Drake hid whatever annoyance he might have felt fairly well. “I’m looking to make a practical alliance to get some dangerous Killers out of our city. Eli can’t see straight where you’re concerned. I can.”
Gabriel laughed. “So you’re calling me to appeal to my better nature? Delusions about me seem to be contagious.” He caught Jezebel’s sharp glance, but didn’t acknowledge it. The last time he’d made love to her, he’d felt the cracks in his defenses spreading and widening. Amazing how much damage one little slip of a girl could do in just a few hours. At first, he’d convinced himself he could hold out at least a few days, could enjoy her in his bed and by his side just a little longer before his defenses crumbled completely.
Now, he knew he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had to stop the bleeding, and fast, before he gave her the power to destroy him completely. And there was no better way to shore up the walls of his defenses than to remind her just what kind of a man he was.
“You called a truce because this Killer, this Bartolomeo di Cesare, is such a monster even you can’t stomach him,” Drake continued. “If that’s the case, then I hardly think an appeal to your so-called better nature is necessary. You and I both want the same thing—to see him dead. We can help each other.”
Gabriel snorted. “Even if I were inclined to help the Guardians, why should I team up with you? I can kick your ass without breaking a sweat, and my mother and Bartolomeo would find you similarly inconsequential. You have nothing I need.”
“I have knowledge of the city. Knowledge from this century. And I have decades of experience as a hunter.”
Again, Gabriel laughed. “I was hunting centuries before you were born. Try a new angle.”
“You’ve hunted mortals. Any mortal would do. You weren’t hunting for a specific mortal, nor have you hunted for a specific vampire. It’s a different skill.”
“Be that as it may. I didn’t come here as a philanthropist. If Eli doesn’t want my help against di Cesare, then he can take him on himself. I’ll stay true to my word and stay out of your way. But I will not hunt him, and if you find him, he’s all yours.”
“Gabriel—” Jez interrupted, but he silenced her with a glare.
“I was under the impression that you wanted to see this man dead,” Drake said.
Gabriel shrugged, though of course Drake couldn’t see it. “I divested him of the equipment he would need to commit the worst of his atrocities. Perhaps living without his cock and balls is punishment enough.”
Jez looked at him with obvious reproach, but she wisely didn’t try to interrupt again.
Drake made a growling sound on the other end of the line. “You wouldn’t have offered Eli your help in the first place if you didn’t—”
“If Eli wants my help, he can fucking ask me himself!” Gabriel’s fangs descended, and he didn’t even try to control his temper. “I offered my help, and he laughed in my face. Well, t
o hell with him! Let him deal with the consequences of having di Cesare and friends making themselves at home in his city.”
“I’m not Eli,” Drake said, trying to sound reasonable. It didn’t take a genius to hear the anger that shaded his reasonable tone.
“That’s the point, you fool. If Eli asks for my help, I’ll help. But if he’s just going to sit around behind his fence with his head up his ass, then it’s his problem.”
“Look, I know you have every right to be angry with him, but—”
Gabriel hung up before Drake could finish the sentence. He thrust the phone back toward Jez. “If he calls again, I’m not talking to him.”
She took the phone from him, looking at him with a wary expression he hadn’t seen in days. “Don’t you think—”
“No!” he snarled, baring his teeth at her. He felt a faint vibration over the psychic line that connected them and snarled again. “And get the fuck out of my head!”
She jerked backward, her eyes filling with hurt and shock. His first instinct was to apologize and gather her up into his arms. He fought that instinct, slamming shut his mental doors, making sure she’d see no sign of remorse. When he took a step toward her, she took a corresponding step back. And right that moment, no matter how unreasonable it might be, he hated her for it.
This is exactly what you want, he told himself. He wanted to get her head out of the clouds, wanted her to see who he really was, not who she wanted him to be. Naturally, if she saw that, she would draw away. Only the worst kind of fool would harbor tender feelings toward him as he really was.
He reached out with his glamour and forced her eyes to meet his as he stood toe to toe with her.
“There are to be no illusions between us, my sweet,” he said, his tone rough and harsh as sandpaper. “I am not the white knight, come to save the day. I am here to torment and, if possible, kill my father.”
A tear dribbled down her cheek, and he fought the urge to kiss it away. It wasn’t only himself he was protecting by shoving this brutal spoonful of reality down her throat. He was hurting her now, but he’d hurt her far worse if he let her continue looking at him through rose-colored glasses.
