by Alex Lidell
“There is no Dusk equivalent anywhere, Samantha,” Cassis purrs. “But if you mean why are there so many more vamps than fae around, it’s because the Talon gateway is just three blocks north—unless they have some business in the mortal world, most of the fae slink off to Talon the first chance they get. Think of it as their own little world-cave. Vampires, on the other hand, have always dwelt among humans. Do you know why?”
“No.”
Cassis leans closer, his dark, eternal eyes dancing with amusement. “This is where the food is.”
I shove him, though there is no actually moving the muscular shoulder. But it gets my point across. “Stop being dramatic, Dracula. I haven’t seen you kill anyone.”
“I haven’t seen you use the toilet. That doesn’t mean you don’t.” Cassis settles his drink back on the bar.
“Funny.”
Selena Gomez’s latest hit comes on through Cassis’s world-class speakers, and the male closes his eyes for a moment in pleasure, a small smile curling his lips. “These modern bards. Not too bad for warmbloods, wouldn’t you say?”
I roll my eyes and turn back to my work. Pouring Victor’s martini into a glass, I settle it onto my tray and map my route through the room to avoid coming within eye-contact range of the dark trio in the back. If the fact that I’d rather serve Count Victor than Ellis doesn’t send the message about just how little I appreciate his attitude, I don’t know what will.
Straightening my spine, I walk over to Victor’s table. The intensity with which he watches me approach makes my skin crawl. I can’t figure the vamp out, what he wants from me—though I’m sure it’s something. I shake off the thought. At the moment, I know exactly what he wants—the drink he asked for.
Navigating around the vamps and demis who are clustered around Victor as if he’s a cross of the Godfather and Cleopatra, I take the blood martini off my tray. “Here you are, s—” The small tap of Christian’s hip against my elbow could be called accidental in another world, but now it just slows time in breathless horror.
My hand buckles.
My tray falls.
The drink in my fingers slips into the air, the thick red liquid flying like something from a laundry detergent commercial, hitting the middle of the count’s expensive white shirt with sniper precision.
Shit.
I stare at the mess, my eyes wide. In the corner of my eye, I see Christian cross his arms and stare, as if he had nothing to do with the accident. Well, it’s not as if I actually expected him to own up.
“I am so sorry,” I tell Count Victor, reaching for the towel tucked into my belt, without quite knowing what to do with it.
Voices have lowered to a whisper across the club. Even in the red-lit shadows, I can feel their faces turned toward me—toward the show.
Victor looks down at his shirt, then lifts his sharp face toward me, cold and deeply shadowed. Waiting. Expecting something. “Are you?” he inquires after a heartbeat, his voice too loud to be casual.
“Of course.” I blink. Does he think I orchestrated this? With the attention of the entire club on me now, my heart is pounding, my raised chin a matter of trained posture. No matter what I feel inside, if I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s never to let fear show. Fear is like blood in the water to sharks.
“Then perhaps you should reconsider the manner in which you are choosing to express your regrets, Samantha,” says Victor, his Romanian accent crisp and clear. Behind his left shoulder, Leanne smiles, fangs elongating slowly when she knows I’m looking.
That pregnant silence settles between us again, the count’s gaze flickering—of all places—to the back of the room, where Reese, Ellis, and Asher are sitting. As if the answer is somewhere there.
“Beg forgiveness on your knees,” Christian instructs, uncrossing his arms to step up to Victor’s side. Gold skull-and-cross-bone cuff links flash at his wrists. “That is how a low one like you apologizes to the count. And you don’t look a master in the eye. You haven’t earned the privilege, witch.”
“Master?” Cassis’s smooth voice comes up behind me, making me realize the music has stopped, the temperature in the room dipping once more. Brushing his gaze lazily over Christian, Leanna, and the rest of the entourage, Cassis returns his attention to the count. “I see you are adopting strays, Victor. Very nice. Mazel tov. Given that Dusk is not a wildlife shelter, however, perhaps you and your new pets might find amusement elsewhere.”
Victor leans back in his chair, his hand flicking over the wet stain on his shirt. “Your witch has no manners, Cassis.”
“Good. That’s what I pay her for—just in case you forgot that I’m the ranking vampire in this establishment. My witch reports to me.” Cassis’s gaze cuts to me. “Get back behind the bar, if you please, Samantha.”
Confusion grips my body, my thoughts spinning to catch up. Beg forgiveness… Ranking vampire. What in the ever-loving fuck is everyone talking about? I can’t begin to detangle the nuances that seem to be passing between Victor and Cassis, but I’ve a growing understanding that no matter what I do just now, it will piss off someone. Both the males have given me an order, after all, and the two commands are mutually exclusive.
“Now, Devinee,” Cassis growls in my ear, making me jump.
Gathering my dignity, I quickly decide in Cassis’s favor and add a “Yes, sir,” for good measure as I start toward the bar.
One step later, Christian grabs my hair and shoves me down to my knees. Hard.
“Apologize to the count, witch slut,” he demands in his guttural French accent. “Show how a proper lowlife greets someone above her station.”
I don’t see Cassis move until his hand is on Christian’s neck and the cadet is up on his toes. “Not in my bar, demi.” With a shove of a powerful hand, Cassis tosses Christian halfway across the room, the table the boy lands against cracking to bits. Holy fuck. Straightening his cuff links, Cassis steps between Victor and me. “I don’t make a habit of throwing out customers, but you’ve ruined my drinking plans. Lovely seeing you, Victor. Don’t come again.”
Silence. Utter, unbroken silence.
I’m just daring to draw a breath when a pair of leather-clad vamps who’d been standing behind the count grab Cassis’s arms, a third slamming his fist into Cassis’s abdomen.
Cassis takes the blow with a smirk that has his attacker hesitating before drawing a fist back for the next blow. But that one never lands.
With vicious elegance, Cassis wrenches his arms free, the heel of his hand cracking so hard into his assailant that the sound of the male’s breaking nose echoes through the room. The other two goons are dispatched just as quickly, and I take that as my cue to get the hell away.
The moment I start to rise, Leanne backhands me right back to the floor. A ringing sound fills my head. The room swims slightly as I push myself up, a trickle of blood running from my nose down my cheek.
I hear a sharp hiss of breath from multiple corners of the room, the scent of my fresh blood blooming into the air like gasoline in a burning house. Savage growls sound from the back of the room. Asher, Ellis, and Reese are on their feet and moving toward me. To my right, a growing pack of vamps are grabbing bottles and breaking chairs for makeshift clubs, their canines elongated and gleaming under the red lights.
Cassis’s eyes narrow at the blood trickling down my face, his pupils dilating. As his fingers curl into a fist, the fury rolling off him spurs my heart into a full-out gallop. With Cassis now squaring off against Victor, the air crackles with tension. The too-quiet room feels like a drawn-back punch, the energy about to release with a deadly force that no one can stop.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Stop,” says Victor.
And shit. They all do. The vamps put down their weapons, letting their empty hands fall to their sides.
The power this one male has over the world finally hits me.
“Something is breaking tonight, Cassis,” Victor says, his voice as calm and measured as if
the two are sharing a spot of tea. “But perhaps we are civilized enough to address the problem without collateral damage? At my age, I’ve learned there is rarely a need to scorch the earth simply to eradicate a single offending weed.” Victor puffs on his cigar, the sweet smell of tobacco filling the air.
“Your bartender offended me,” he continues. “You unwisely removed her opportunity to apologize, and yet the insult must be set to rights. To this end, I shall give you a choice. Stand aside while the witch is punished, punish her yourself, or bear the penalty on her behalf. As you so eloquently stated, this is your domain, Cassis. It’s only tradition that the choice be yours.”
Cassis huffs a laugh, opening his arms wide. “Take all the blows on me you want, Victor. I haven’t had a good massage in decades.”
A corner of Victor’s mouth twitches. Then he turns to his minions. “Destroy the piano.”
“No,” I scream, struggling to my feet. Cassis flinches but holds still, his mouth set in a tight line as an awful, awful sound fills Dusk.
9
Reese
The final soul-piercing moans of piano strings vibrated through Reese as he wrapped up his morning jog, his thoughts as jumbled as they’d been when he started the run. The sun had risen on the first clear, sunny day in over a week, blue sky showing through the forest’s dense canopy where a pair of birds currently rioted. The pine-scented trails were calm as always. The same could not be said of Reese’s mind, however.
Last night’s performance at Dusk had been a setup, a demonstration Victor orchestrated to show Reese the costs of disobeying the count’s wishes. Victor could have been no more clear if he’d sent a postcard with teach Samantha how to grovel properly or I hurt your brother spelled out in bright red ink.
To the bastard’s credit, Victor had hit all the right pressure points. That was the problem with caring for someone—it meant you had pressure points. But Cassis was Reese’s brother. As for Samantha… The image of the witch on her knees in the middle of a snarling nest of vamps, the pulsing red light illuminating the blood running down her full lips, it all sent a shiver of inexplicable fury through Reese’s soul. Fury that he’d tried—and failed—to run himself free of this morning.
Inside his pocket, his phone vibrated with insistent messages. One of his former commanders from the SEALs, a fellow vamp, ran a private protection force and was busy trying to lure him back into the fold.
Two days ago, he would have called it a nonstarter. He hadn’t been gone long enough, and his routine lay with the official militaries. Delta Force was up on his list next, though he might pivot and go to the UK for a stint in the SAS.
But now—now it sounded like relief. A ticket to get the hell away from Victor’s manipulations. This clusterfuck of a situation. From a witch who made Reese feel when he didn’t want to.
“Running away?” Shifting out of his wolf form, Asher ran a hand through his sweat-soaked golden hair and jerked his chin at the phone that was now in Reese’s hand. “Or just running?”
Reese snorted. Of course Asher was trailing him. He’d been at the club last night, saw Victor’s little dog and pony show—he would want answers.
“Where do your clothes go when you shift?” Reese shoved his phone back into his pocket. “I never thought to ask.”
“Damned if I know.” Falling in step beside Reese as they neared the edge of the forest, Asher kept the kind of companionable silence that let you know that he was ready to listen, yet with no pressure to speak before you were ready. It was one of the things that had made him a great general over the centuries. Asher cared about the people under him—whether they numbered a few dozen or a few thousand. In that way, he was Reese’s utter opposite.
“When Victor had his lackeys provoke Sam last night, it wasn’t to send a message to her,” Reese said finally.
Asher grunted. “I thought something was off. If he’d wanted to pressure Samantha, the Academy is a more controlled environment. So what does our fearless leader want with Cassis?”
“Not Cassis either,” said Reese. “Me. Victor wants Sam following vampiric protocols, but he can’t order a witch to do that without setting off havoc with the council. So he wants me to bully her into it while Victor stands back and waits to be pleasantly surprised by the witch’s choice.”
“I see.” Asher’s voice was very, very even.
Reese stopped, turning to Asher and dropping his gaze for a moment in silent apology. He should have told him earlier. Asher was in charge and deserved to know. Reese had stupidly thought he’d had it handled. “I’m sorry.”
“Blackmail. Some things never change.” Asher’s tawny eyes stayed steady on the distant stone towers of the Academy, but Reese had no delusions that his friend was anything but livid. “The presence of a witch, especially one capable of influencing the elements, changes the power dynamic. That’s even before we consider what happens when she matures and takes a council seat. It’s little wonder that both Bryant and Victor want to break her to their bridle. What are you going to do? Provided you are still considering options beyond running off like a coward.”
“I’m not running away,” Reese said. “I’m making a strategic retreat. If I stay, the choice is either bend to Victor’s blackmail or watch Cassis get hurt over and over again. Take me out of the equation, and the fire dies for lack of oxygen.”
“No, it doesn’t. Victor will simply find another vampire for the job, and if this project is destined to happen, I, for one, would prefer it be handled by someone I trust.” Asher sighed, drumming two fingers against his thigh. His voice lowered. “If you aren’t ready to spend so much time alone with a witch, I will understand.”
The words hit Reese in the gut, and it took all his centuries of training to keep as much from showing in his face. He wasn’t afraid of Samantha Devinee, no matter what Ellis’s theories suggested or who the witch saw in her strange visions. He wasn’t.
“If the witch starts practicing vampiric protocols, it will make her appear to side with the vamps,” Reese said, turning the tables on Asher instead. “That could start an interspecies war.”
Asher shook his head, looking utterly unfazed. “Whether Samantha uses the protocols is a separate conversation—and, frankly, her choice. However, I insist that her choices be educated ones. Last night at Dusk, the girl didn’t know Victor’s demands were—arguably—appropriate for the environment. All she saw was bullying. It’s damn fortunate she didn’t contradict Cassis’s orders on top of the count’s.”
Reese felt a noose constricting around his neck. Bloody Asher and his logic.
“I’ll talk to her,” Reese said, ignoring the way his body tensed in anticipation of Sam’s sweet scent. “Explain the rules. Force the knowledge of vampiric protocol down her throat if I have to. Then I’m done. When or whether she uses them is her business. Or yours.”
That evening, Reese leaned against the back wall of the gymnasium, watching his pupil-to-be sink her fists into the canvas punching bag. He’d intended to interrupt her the moment he walked in, but something about the ferocity of the girl’s movements gave him pause. Made him hold still in the shadows, unnoticed, while the thump thump thump of Samantha’s knuckles against the stuffed canvas echoed through the room.
From the way Sam’s skin gleamed with sweat under the harsh fluorescent lights, she’d been at the bag for a while. Each time she struck, a faint tremble ran through every inch of her tight body, damp strands of hair escaping her ponytail and sticking to her face and neck. Distantly, Reese noted that her striking form had improved. Ellis was a hell of a trainer.
For a moment, as Reese stood watching Sam, he forgot why it was he came and nearly called out instructions on form. He caught himself in time, but by then, the rawness of the girl’s movements drew Reese’s attention to her face instead.
Clenched jaw. Flaring nostrils. Eyes bloodshot and glazed over with exhaustion—physical and otherwise. She’d been crying.
Shit.
Reese
’s hand tightened around the book he’d brought, his stomach clenching as well. He’d come here for a purpose. To inform the witch she’d be learning protocol. Give her a schedule. Maybe scuff her up a little to get her in the right frame of mind. And instead, he found Sam drowning in enough pain to twist air into knots. To make something inside Reese waken with a need to heal it.
Which he certainly wasn’t going to do. Was in no fucking way qualified to do. The last thing Reese needed was to get into the witch’s business. To let her anywhere near his own.
Sam placed the next blow with great enough force and little enough skill that instead of moving the bag, she knocked herself onto the floor, barely avoiding hitting her head in the process. Scrambling up with the ferocity of a feral cat, the little witch growled in frustration and attacked the bag again, blow after blow after blow—each more likely to hurt herself than the bag. Which, Reese was starting to realize with a heavy, sinking feeling, was probably the point. A way of drowning out one pain with another.
Reese knew that little technique well—he’d done it to himself over and over for centuries.
Before he could reconsider, Reese pushed himself silently off the wall and started toward the girl. A slight tang of sweet copper was seeping into the air now—blood from where Sam skinned her knuckles raw over and over on the rough canvas. Yeah. Reese knew that trick too.
Jaw tight, Reese hooked Sam’s leg midstep, tripping the witch neatly onto her back midblow. ”What exactly are you punishing yourself over?”
Sam scrambled up to her elbows, glaring at him savagely. Under her tight red racerback, her breasts heaved. And then, she chose to say the one thing that gave Reese no choice but to respond. “Fuck. Off. Sir.”
With a short growl, Reese grabbed Sam by the front of her shirt and hauled her to her feet. Ignoring the girl’s flailing limbs, he pivoted smoothly and slammed her right into the nearest padded wall. With her feet still dangling above the floor, he stepped in close enough that his breath brushed against her flushed cheeks—and her breasts against his chest, a fact that he pushed way, way down where it belonged.