Hunt the Moon

by Karen Chance

  And then I was staring into a lovely pair of lapis eyes instead.

  I blinked, stunned and confused and more than a little sick, as one of the mages ran up alongside the carriage. It was the one my mother was driving, in the middle of the road like a sane person, and which I was now somehow on top of. The mage grabbed for her and she broke eye contact with me long enough to glance at him, and then he was gone, popping out of existence like Niall had back in the suite. I knew that was what had happened, because a second later he showed up again in the middle of the street in front of us.

  And then she ran him down.

  “Damn, Liz!” the kidnapper said, staring up at her.

  “Who are you?” she asked, turning those amazing eyes on me again.

  And for some reason, I couldn’t answer. I stared into that lovely face, so close, closer than I’d ever thought it would be, and I couldn’t say anything at all. My throat closed up and my eyes filled and my face crumbled and I probably looked like a complete, blubbering idiot. But try as I might, I couldn’t seem to say anything—

  And then the kidnapper answered for me.

  “Agnes sent her,” he said harshly. “It’s a trap!”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, her eyes never leaving my face. I don’t know what expression I was wearing, but she looked stunned, disbelieving, shocked. She put out a hand to touch my cheek, and it trembled slightly. “I don’t think so,” she whispered.

  “I’m telling you, they’re working together!” he hissed. “She’s the one who helped that bitch drag me back—”

  “Agnes is a good woman.”

  “She’s a bitch!” he shrieked. “And this one’s just as bad. You have to—”

  I never found out what he wanted her to do. Because four mages jumped on the coach at the same time, which was impossible, since at least two of them were supposed to be dead. But they all looked pretty lively to me, including the one who grabbed the kidnapper around the throat and jerked him back off his feet. I didn’t see what the others did, because the next moment we were shifting, flowing through time with an ease I’d never before experienced.

  Shifting was usually metallic and electric and vaguely terrifying, like the thrilling ride of a roller coaster you suspect might just be out of control. But this wasn’t. It was warm and soft and natural, like breathing, a light caress that picked us up and gentled us along toward . . . somewhen. I didn’t know; I didn’t care. I just wanted to stay here, right here—

  “But this isn’t your fight,” she told me simply, as the tide washed us toward an unknown shore.

  I shook my head, trying to tell her that she was wrong, that it was my fight; it so very definitely was. But I still couldn’t talk, even as I felt her hand dissolve under mine, as the current washed us in two different directions, as I cried out and tried to hold on to something that simply wasn’t there anymore—

  And the next thing I knew, I was standing on a street corner, surrounded by flashing neon lights and falling snow and shimmery, delicate nets of hanging stars, watching a Victorian coach veer across modern traffic lanes—for an instant. Before vanishing again into nothingness.

  And just like that, she was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  I stood on the street corner, swaying slightly, while bits of snow gathered in my hair. It’s a beautiful last view, I thought blankly, watching what looked like Christmas crowds rushing about. The stars overhead were banners of lights draped across the openings of each street feeding into the intersection. Other streets farther down had them, too, so that the whole from the air probably resembled a great, glittering wheel. Or maybe a wreath. That would be more Christmassy, wouldn’t it?

  They look pretty against the black sky, anyway, I thought, as water dripped into my eyes from rain that had fallen however many decades ago. I didn’t bother to brush it away. It didn’t seem to matter now.

  The lights on passing cars blurred together in long streamers of gold and red, appropriately festive. I watched them, feeling wobbly and cold and numb, and waited for oblivion. And waited. And waited.

  And then I heard running footsteps coming up behind me, and before I even had a chance to turn around, hands grasped my shoulders, spinning me about. I stared dizzily up at Mircea, who was looking a little crazed. His hair was wild and so were his eyes, and there was a smudge of mud on his cheek. “You’re still here,” he said blankly.

  I nodded cautiously, half expecting not to be at any second.

  His fingers tightened on my shoulders, almost painfully. And then he picked me up and spun me around, heedless of my filthy dress or my dripping hair or the safety of the passersby. “You’re still here!” he said, laughing, and kissed me.

  And either it was a damn good kiss or not fading away into oblivion was a hell of an aphrodisiac. Because after only a second, those lips melted the cold shock that had all but paralyzed me, and my hands clenched on his shoulders and my leg curled around him and the next thing I knew, I was climbing his body and doing my best to climb down his throat. Mircea gave as good as he got. His hands found my ass and he lifted, and my legs fastened around him and he spun us around again, as snow fell and cars honked and somebody laughed, and I didn’t give a damn because I was alive to experience all of it.

  We broke apart only when it was that or asphyxiation. I clung to him, panting and light-headed from passion or relief or lack of air or all three, and the crowd we’d managed to collect applauded politely. Somebody donated a sprig of mistletoe, “not that you two need it,” which Mircea jauntily stuck behind his ear. And then he kissed me again.

  I think he only stopped because I started shivering. We were both soaked and it was freezing, and I’d managed to lose his jacket somewhere along the way. Even with Mircea’s warmth, the cold, damp night air was already making its way in underneath my clothes, seeping down my neckline and slithering up my legs.

  And there was no point even trying to shift back home. I’d be lucky to be able to do it in the morning, assuming I got some food and rest between now and then. But that posed a problem.

  I looked at Mircea, who was staring up at the swirl of snow seemingly in fascination. “Mircea?”

  “It’s beautiful, dulceață,” he said, his tone awed. “Do you see? Beautiful.”

  “What is?”

  “The snow. The night.” His arms tightened. “You.”

  I eyed him warily. “Thanks?”

  Warm lips found my neck. “You are welcome.”

  “Mircea. It’s freezing.” “I will keep you warm,” he told me, those lips sliding down to my cleavage.

  And, okay, it was getting warmer out here. “We can’t stay on a street corner all night,” I protested.

  “Of course we can’t.” And before I fully realized what was happening, we were at the end of the street, my arm tucked in his as he looked this way and that, curious and bright-eyed and obviously delighted. With what I didn’t know, but a second later he laughed. “Oh yes. Yes, that will do splendidly.”

  And then snowflakes falling around us were caught in headlights. They froze like crystals hanging in the darkness, a thousand tiny flashes of gold, as a limo pulled up at the corner. I looked at Mircea. “How . . . ?”

  “I borrowed it from a friend,” he told me, bundling me inside. And then immediately covered my body with his own.

  He kissed me slower this time, a tender movement of his lips and then his tongue against mine, deliberate, caring, and carnal. And for a few moments, I forgot everything, except the silky hair falling around me, the smoothness of the lips on mine, and the feel of his hands on my body. Their calluses came from handling a sword regularly, hundreds of years ago, but vampires stayed as they were when they died, so they had never softened. They were the only remnant of the half-barbarian prince he’d once been, except for the hair he refused to cut.

  I took the opportunity to bury my hands in it now, a spill of deep, silky mahogany, the color of oak leaves in autumn. And, okay, that was corny, bu
t Mircea made a girl poetic. Only this so wasn’t the place.

  “Mircea. We can’t,” I gasped, glancing at the driver, who was watching us unashamedly in the mirror.

  Mircea didn’t even look up. “Drive,” he said, and smashed a hand down on the button for the partition.

  By the time it was up, my top was down and things were progressing at a rather frightening rate. “People can see us through the windows,” I protested, as the soaked silk was unzipped and my bra unhooked, all in one smooth motion.

  “Tinted.”

  “But . . . I’m hungry.”

  “So am I,” he growled, and pulled off my dress.

  Somebody had left a fur coat on the seat, something black as midnight and soft as a cloud, and the sensation against my bare skin was a hell of a distraction. Although not as much as the warm hands smoothing over me, the hard-muscled thighs pressing against me, or the tongue sliding over mine, liquid and warm and increasingly demanding.

  I came up for air, minutes later, to find that Mircea’s coat was off, his shirt was open and his tie was barely clinging to one shoulder. That was a little disturbing, because I couldn’t remember how he got that way, or how my panties had ended up flung against the opposite seat. All I knew was that I was naked except for that sinfully soft fur coat, most of which was trapped beneath me.

  I tried to tug it around, to give me some possibility of coverage should any of the passing cars get too close, but Mircea had other ideas. “Leave it,” he said hoarsely. “I like the contrast with your skin.”

  And then he proceeded to show me exactly how much.

  “What’s . . . what’s gotten into you?” I gasped, as that dark head worked its way down from lips to neck to body. Not that Mircea wasn’t usually . . . affectionate . . . but he didn’t normally care for public displays—or even semipublic ones.

  It didn’t seem to be bothering him right now, though.

  The lips on my skin were warm and soft and pliable, unlike the prick of fangs behind them. But he didn’t bite down, he just scraped them lightly over sensitive flesh, until I was hard and peaked and desperate. “It has been a while, so I cannot be certain,” he murmured. “But I believe I may be drunk.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  “The blood of those creatures. It was . . . intoxicating.”

  “You mean the mages?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He rolled a nipple between tongue and teeth, making my hands fist in his shirt.

  “But . . . but they were human.”

  “Mmm, no,” he said thoughtfully. And then he bit down.

  I gasped and clutched his head between my hands, holding him as he drank from me. The sensation of warm lips, sharp, sharp teeth and deep, intimate pulls had my body tightening, my skin flushing and my pulse pounding in my ears. I felt my grip on the moment slipping away.

  “Then what were they?” I asked breathlessly, before I forgot what the hell we were talking about.

  “They were human, but stronger,” he told me, sitting back on his heels. “Like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Your blood is richer than normal, due to the power of your office,” he explained, tossing the tie aside.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It matters because your power used to belong to a god.” He started to pull off the shirt, but I put out a hand.

  “Leave it,” I said huskily. He wasn’t the only one who liked a contrast. And the white, white fabric against the honey-drenched skin was . . . pleasing.

  He quirked an eyebrow, but did as I asked. Then he slid back over me, grinning wickedly. “Perhaps that is why you taste divine.”

  “You’re saying those mages were—were some kind of demigods?” I asked as he nuzzled my neck.

  “I do not know, having never before had the opportunity to sample a god. But their blood was like yours—thick, rich, like old cognac.”

  I had another question, but then his head dipped and his mouth closed over me again and I forgot what it was. I pretty much forgot everything as his tongue laved the small puncture wounds he’d made, the gentle, tender probing sending shudders through my whole body. I arched up mindlessly and he sat up, pulling me, naked, onto his lap.

  My lips opened to protest, because if I’d been visible before it was nothing compared to now. But then strong hands grasped me and a magnificent hardness pressed against me and he started to suck not so gently. And my protest turned into a moan as my legs tightened around him, my skin flushed a deeper shade of pink, and my body squirmed, craving friction, craving more. I buried my fingers in the raw silk of his hair and forgot the passing cars and the curious driver and everything except the pull of that mouth and the feel of those hands, smoothing up and down my back and clenching—

  And, okay, I thought dizzily, maybe this could work, after all.

  But the next second Mircea was drawing back. “You’re hungry,” he announced, as if this were news.

  “What? Do I have low blood sugar?” I asked facetiously.

  “Yes.” He rapped smartly on the partition, which lowered so fast I barely had time to snatch up the mink. The vampire driver wasn’t a family member or a high-level master, so Mircea had to talk to him directly. “The Club,” he said succinctly.

  “We are already there, my lord,” the driver said softly. “I took the liberty of anticipating your wishes.”

  “Good man,” Mircea said, and before I quite knew what was happening, he’d pulled me out into the snow.

  Even with the mink, the shock of cold air was a little stunning after the cozy warmth of the limo. But we weren’t out in it for long. My toes barely had time to register the frozen sidewalk before Mircea swung me up and ran with me up the stairs of a beautiful old row house.

  A plain red door, like a dozen others on the street, gave way to a narrow little hallway boasting a priceless chandelier, a mahogany welcome desk and what looked suspiciously like a Cézanne, its bright colors glowing against the dark wood paneling.

  A rotund little vampire bustled around the side of the desk and then disappeared. It took me a second to realize that he’d bowed, so low that even peering over the edge of the mink, all I could see were the lights gleaming off his shiny bald head. He bobbed back up after a minute, and then he did it again, like one of those drinking bird toys that just can’t stay upright.

  But eventually he did, leading the way up the stairs. And I guessed he must have been a lot older than the driver, because not a word was said until his slightly shaking hands had opened the door to a magnificent suite. It was saffron and coral and deep chocolate brown, with a fireplace in caramel-colored marble and a huge window overlooking the city lights.

  “I—I hope it is to your liking, my lord,” he murmured, and turned pink-cheeked with delight when Mircea casually nodded.

  “Yes, it’s fine. We’ll eat up here.”

  “Of course, of course. Right away.” The little vamp bowed himself out—literally—bobbing three times as he withdrew backward into the hall. And then Mircea finally let me down, only to get his hands inside the coat and push me against the wall.

  “I’m dirty,” I protested.

  He waggled his eyebrows. “Promise?”

  “Mircea!” I laughed in spite of myself. “I want a bath before we eat!”

  His eyes, glinting in the discreet light of the suite, met mine. “If you’ll indulge me.”

  “I’m not bathing with you,” I told him firmly. I’d never get any dinner that way.

  “Of course not,” he said, in pretend shock.

  “Then what?”

  He let a single finger trace down my cheek to my jaw, to my neck, to my . . . necklace? “Is your ghost in residence?”

  “No.” I hadn’t felt the need for a chaperone. “Why?”

  “Because I have a recurring fantasy of you dining with me wearing this.” That warm finger slowly traced the outline of the baroque monstrosity. “And only this.”

  I made a small sound and closed my ey
es.

  Goddamnit.

  Despite appearances, I was trying, I was really, really trying, to have a relationship with Mircea, not just to jump his bones every time we had five minutes alone together. And I’d been doing pretty well lately, mainly because he’d been in New York and I’d been in Vegas and my plans always sounded a lot more doable when he wasn’t pressed up against me and—

  “Stop that,” I told him, as he rotated his hips sinuously, because the damn man had no shame at all.

  “Then give me an answer,” he said, laughter in his voice.

  I looked up, intending to say no, but those dark eyes had an unmistakable glint of challenge sparkling in their depths. As if he thought I wouldn’t do it. As if he was sure I wouldn’t do it. Because I wasn’t a vampire, wasn’t adventurous like . . . certain other people. Who probably didn’t have a problem sashaying around covered in nothing but that long, silky black hair, those almond-shaped, dark eyes peeking coyly back over her dainty shoulder as she—

  Goddamnit!

  But it wasn’t that easy for me. Not because I had a problem indulging him, although nudity wasn’t my favorite thing. But because I was human. And Mircea, like a lot of vampires, had the bad habit of assuming that whatever he wanted from a human, he would get.

  It didn’t help that he was usually right.

  And centuries of that sort of thing had messed with his head, to the point that he rarely saw the need for debate with said human, or compromise or negotiation or any of the sort of things he would do with one of his own kind. He’d claimed me; therefore I was his. End of discussion, had there been a discussion, which there hadn’t been because I was human and some days, most days, that attitude just really made me want to tear my hair out.

  So here I was, trying to see if a relationship would maybe, possibly, in some sort of way work despite the fact that the mages were absolutely going to hate it and the Weres weren’t going to love it and I was also going to take flak from the vampires after they realized that “relationship” didn’t mean “ownership” in my vocabulary, and what was Mircea doing?