“Yeah,” she muttered after him, her phone already dialing.
He considered staying to listen in on her conversation with the authorities but didn’t want to risk her seeing him again this soon. The police report would give him the information he needed.
Then Mateo would work his magic on her background.
Stas.
Hmm, Issac really hoped that was short for something because the name just did not fit the unique woman.
Time would tell.
Until then, he had a call to the Hydraian King to make.
2
Caught in the Act
The woman didn’t mention Issac or Osiris’s lapdogs, stating she found the door slightly ajar when she arrived. Her omissions intrigued him, but not nearly as much as the rest of her portfolio.
Astasiya Davenport.
Adopted seventeen years ago by Susan and Henry Davenport in Havre, Montana. Whereabouts prior to adoption unknown.
Now twenty-four years old. NYU master’s degree candidate set to graduate at the end of this semester—in less than two weeks.
CRF intern in the marketing department.
Roommate to Elizabeth Watkins, daughter of renowned George Watkins—an asshole to the highest degree.
Issac grew more curious with every detail he learned about Astasiya from her dossier. He’d memorized all of it, including her transcripts and familial history. All in preparation for seeing her again.
She had a lot of explaining to do.
And soon.
Issac brushed his thumb across his bottom lip as he eyed Astasiya and Elizabeth from the shadows of the Kimmel Center auditorium.
He’d cloaked his presence from everyone around him but remained conscious of Astasiya’s ability to see through his glamour. Hence his position behind her, leaning against the wall. If she turned, she’d see him. Fortunately, the dean of the College of Political Science held her attention as he spoke about Owen Angelton from the podium at the front. There were photos of the Hydraian everywhere, all smiles, most of them including Astasiya.
The phone records confirmed the age of their friendship—nearly six years, just as she’d said.
Lucian had been astonished to learn his immortal had been lurking in renowned Ichorian territory. Issac purposely withheld the details about Astasiya, wishing to learn more about her himself first.
She could prove useful.
Or maybe she’d played him all along.
Her proven ties to Jonathan suggested the latter. The redhead beside her damned her even more. But something about Astasiya felt genuine, innocent in a way that Issac couldn’t help but wonder about her true purpose here.
Elizabeth wrapped her slender arms around Astasiya’s neck after the dean finished, her hug expressing a firm friendship between them. “Just say the word and we’re out of here.” The words were faint but clear.
“I’m okay,” Astasiya replied, the tension in her body betraying the lie as she pulled back. “It’s just all these memories, you know?”
“Like the photo they used from freshman year?” Elizabeth snorted. “I can’t believe they chose that one.”
“It was a good day. A good week, really.”
“Duh. It’s when you met me.” The redhead smiled, her peculiar genetics fully on display. Issac wondered if she knew about her birthright. Did Astasiya know? Their history extended as far back as the one Astasiya had with Owen. That couldn’t be a coincidence. “Seriously, we can go if you need to,” Elizabeth added, her expression sobering.
“I’m okay, Liz. Being out is what I need right now. Owen wouldn’t want me, or any of us, to sit at home.”
Elizabeth nodded. “True, he—”
“Lizzie!” A gaggle of girls had approached, their dyed hair and made-up faces a stark contrast to Astasiya’s natural look. They all reached for Elizabeth, pulling her away into their circle and leaving Astasiya staring after them with a sardonic twist of her mouth.
Disapproval, not envy. And a slight touch of humor.
Issac agreed with her entirely, especially as the women begin sobbing over Owen’s untimely demise. He suspected the females barely knew the immortal.
Astasiya, however, clearly knew him.
He lifted the program up to hide his features, stepping back into the wall just as she turned. Her sweet scent taunted his nostrils, the lure of her blood exciting his instincts.
Definitely a fledgling.
So who created you? he wondered as he followed her.
The minds of the room were easy to manipulate, his presence here lost in the recesses of their thoughts. He likened it to a room littered with televisions all set to the same channel as he wove through the crowds after Astasiya.
She remained lost in thought, not sensing the predator in her wake—a fatal error. He could snap her pretty little neck with a flick of his wrist. Thankfully, she was of more use to him alive.
A curvy woman with bouncy curls stepped into his quarry’s path, her round face smothered in tears. She sobbed some story about Owen that had Astasiya cringing and taking a step back. The words continued flowing, none of them intelligible.
“Stop crying,” Astasiya demanded. Her shoulders seemed to tighten even more with the words, her upper body stiff. “I mean, just, it’s going to be okay… It’s…”
But the girl had ceased her blubbering, her gaze eerily unfocused. “Sorry,” she mumbled, taking her leave.
Issac frowned after her. How odd.
“Fuck,” Astasiya muttered to herself, her steps faster now.
Until yet another female waylaid her from the side. A reporter with overdone lips and hair bigger than the room.
He nearly snorted.
Tabloids belonged to the devil.
“I heard through the grapevine you and Mr. Angelton were close. What can you tell me about his social activities?”
“Yeah, I’m not interested. Thanks, though.” She tried to maneuver around the pushy woman, but a set of manicured nails snagged her arm.
“Is it true he was gay?”
Astasiya winced, causing Issac to take a step forward. It seemed it was time for him to intervene. She’d not be pleased to see him, but it had to be better—
“Let me go,” she said, her voice low and steady. A cascade of energy seemed to follow, alerting his senses.
The reporter released her immediately, her expression filled with shock.
Astasiya didn’t miss a beat, her legs quickly carrying her out of the room.
Issac stood motionless, shocked at the display of power.
All fledglings were gifted with two supernatural abilities, but they couldn’t access them until their resurrection—until their Hydraian rebirth.
Just like Ichorians couldn’t access their inherent talent until their own death and reawakening.
But this woman could compel.
How was that even possible?
She wasn’t a Hydraian yet. And definitely not an Ichorian. He’d sense it in her blood.
What are you, Miss Davenport?
Or better yet, who are you really?
He trailed after her engaging scent, requiring answers. She maintained ties to Jonathan, lived with a renowned experiment, and had befriended the late Owen Angelton. Too many coincidences when wrapped up with her ability to persuade others.
Not a typical human. Far from it.
Issac caught a glimpse of her disappearing into a nearby classroom, her hands fisted at her sides. He entered silently, closing the door behind him without a sound as she stared blankly at the vacant room.
His lips parted, but her rounding shoulders silenced his words.
She reminded him of a broken raven in that black dress, her body curling in on itself as she fought not to cry.
That hint of innocence slammed into him again, confusing his instincts.
She mourned Owen’s loss.
A true friend.
Not an act, because she thought she was alone here.
He leaned
against the wall, crossing one ankle over the other as he surveyed her long, slender legs—exposed by the dress—and her supple curves. A gorgeous woman, especially with that thick mane of hair.
Time to play this from a different angle.
He waited until her breathing evened, and murmured, “Well, that was enlightening.”
Astasiya’s hand flew to her chest as she whirled around. “Jesus,” she managed on a harsh exhale. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Issac slid his hands into his pockets and cocked his head to the side. “I’m curious. How old were you when you realized you could bend others to your will?”
She paled. “What?”
“Oh, come now, Astasiya. Feigning ignorance doesn’t suit you. Order me to do something instead. I dare you.”
She froze instead, her full lips parting, her slender arms locking at her sides. All signs that confirmed his suspicions. Not only that, but she was very aware of her gift as well.
“I thought the hysterical woman might just be emotionally mad,” he said, pushing off the wall to saunter closer to her. “Persuasion is a rare gift, after all.” An understatement. Issac knew of only one other with the ability—Osiris.
And wouldn’t he be pleased to learn of Astasiya’s existence.
A fledgling who could compel without having been turned.
The things Issac’s kind would do to her… Correction, the things he should do to her…
Alas, no.
Not just yet.
He tucked a stray blonde strand behind her ear, reveling in the way it made her pulse skip a beat. “The scene with the reporter—telling her to let you go—was clear compulsion, Miss Davenport.” He’d witnessed it countless times during Conclave meetings. She certainly possessed the power of persuasion, a dangerous ability in the wrong hands, indeed.
She swallowed. “How long have you been watching me?” The steady quality of her voice impressed him, especially with the way her heart thundered in his ears—a calling card to his kind.
“Long enough.” He allowed his gaze to roam, admiring the elegant lines of her dress and the way it hugged her curves. Gorgeous. Athletic. The type of woman he’d entertain in his bed before leaving in the morning. Except this one possessed something more, something that piqued his interest in a way few others had throughout the centuries.
Her pupils flared as he met her gaze again, her heightened breaths an indication that his open perusal of her assets had not gone unnoticed. And the subtle hint of interest in her green irises told him the attraction was mutual.
But he doubted she’d be as easy as his usual conquests.
And he liked that about her.
“It’s customary for one in my position to kill you on sight,” he informed Astasiya, deciding not to lie to her. “Fortunately for you, darling, I’m not an admirer of our archaic laws.”
Fear tinged the air, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. Yet her expression hardened, as if she was struggling not to lay a retort at his feet.
Fascinating.
All it would take was a command and he’d back off, yet she remained quiet. Nearly stoic. Unfazed.
“You really have no idea what you are, do you?” The prospect of a fledgling walking about with persuasive abilities intrigued him immensely, so much so that he smiled. “Amazing. You were adopted at age seven, yes? Surely you learned something from your birth parents before that point?”
Her fingers curled at her sides, her shoulders tensing. “I learned not to trust the supernatural world.”
“Yes, I’m guessing the house fire was a cover story.” He’d read about it in the report. “Very nice of the Davenports to take you in, though.” He considered her carefully, searching her features for tells to decipher truth from lies. “Does anyone else know what you can do?”
She folded her arms, her bare skin brushing his suit jacket in the process. If she wanted him to step back, she’d have to try harder.
Astasiya cleared her throat, her pupils narrowing. “It’s not something I go around advertising, no.”
“Then you clearly want to live.”
“Most people do,” she replied, her voice flat and emotionless. Too bad for her that he could hear the escalated rhythm in her chest.
And it was bloody intoxicating.
“Are you going to get to the point of this visit anytime soon, or do you plan to tell me more things I already know about myself?” she demanded, causing his lips to curl.
Feisty.
He approved.
“Tell me, darling, would you like to know more about your unique talents?” It was a test phrased as a query. What he really meant was, Do you know what you are?
The slipping of her bravado answered him immediately.
No. She had no idea.
And now he’d baited her, because curiosity flashed across her features, and a longing that nearly fractured his plans. It wasn’t nice to play with fragile toys, and while she exuded a tough exterior, a delicate essence lurked beneath her skin.
One that gleamed with hope as she asked, “You can tell me?”
“I can,” he admitted. “For a price.”
The hint of hope died, replaced by a flash of annoyance. She glanced over him, her lips flattening into a line of disapproval. Not the usual look women gave him, especially when dressed in an expensive suit.
“You don’t look like someone who needs the money.”
Ah, right, she’s still clueless. He chuckled and considered fondling the strand of hair brushing the side of her breast. It would be soft, addictively so.
“I do love that you have no idea who I am,” he confessed. It felt like an eternity had passed since he last hid from humanity. Hopefully, his reasons for being in the city and in the spotlight would diminish soon—something this woman just might be able to assist him in accomplishing. Especially with her connections and otherworldly ability.
“You know, a name would help with that,” she snapped.
He smirked. “No, I find I like the anonymity.” He leaned into her space, his eyes holding hers. “But do let me know when you figure it out.”
“By, what, calling you?” she asked sweetly.
Humor touched his chest. “You could try.” But even if she found his name, no one would put her through to his phone without permission. Maybe he’d add her name to the approved list, just for fun. Maybe he wouldn’t.
She pursed her lips. “Can you tell me who killed Owen and why?”
Probably not, but… “I can tell you all sorts of things.” And he could always work with her to determine the culprit behind Owen’s demise. Lucian would benefit from the information as well.
“For a price,” she repeated, amusing him more.
“Indeed.”
She considered, her brow furrowing. He wondered if she would try to demand some answers out of him. That would spoil his plans, but he knew how to answer evasively, had been doing it for years with Osiris. And once she realized that, she’d hopefully take him up on his offer. Because he wanted her to agree, to enable him to have the opportunity to learn more about her unique background and talent.
And to determine if she was yet another product of Jonathan’s lab.
Like her roommate.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice holding a touch of uncertainty.
He admired her neckline again and the way her dress stopped at her thighs. Magnificent, long legs ending in a pair of heels that accentuated her calves. “Money is not the only form of payment, darling,” he murmured, meaning every word.
Why not mix a little business with pleasure? Assuming she agreed, of course.
And the flush creeping up her neck said she did.
She swallowed, her tongue darting out to lick her lips again as if readying them for his mouth.
Fear, he found, lent well to foreplay. He gave in to his desire to fondle the loose strand of her hair beside her breast, his fingertips purposely brushing her dress along the way. Her nippl
es beaded beautifully beneath the fabric in response, another tell of her mutual interest.
Something to play with later.
“I’ll be in touch when I decide what I desire.” He gave her hair a subtle tug, releasing it. “Until then, I strongly suggest you keep that psychic gift of yours under control. You never know who might be watching, darling.”
3
Demons and Nightmares
So much pain. It pierced Stas’s chest, suffocating her so severely she couldn’t help but reach for the source of the agony.
“I’m okay, little angel,” her mom assured. “I’m okay.”
“Mom hurts,” Stas whispered. “Bad hurt.”
“I know, baby. But I’m okay.” Her mom pulled her into her arms, holding her tight. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Momma.”
A game of hide-and-seek.
Go play.
Go hide.
Don’t come out.
That’s what Daddy had said.
And she listened because he always liked to play. She went to her favorite spot in the trees, waiting, but he never came.
She waited and waited and waited.
But nothing.
“Daddy?” she whispered, peeking through the branches, her forehead marred with a frown. He should have found her by now.
Stas crept out of her spot, quietly. He’d told her not to come out until he found her. She’d promised. Maybe she should stay.
But what if he couldn’t find her? She’d chosen a real good spot this time. Her lips twitched to the side. He probably just needed a little help.
She took a few more steps, her nose twitching at the smoke wafting through the trees. A fire.
Oh no!
Her little legs carried her fast toward the flames, her heart beating in her chest. But a hand stopped her, holding her back, caging her as her parents screamed.
Cruel black eyes flecked with gold.
A sinister smile.
Her parents burning, the agony of their deaths ripping Stas in two.
Momma! Daddy! But her voice refused her, a prisoner to her own body, forced to watch their suffering. She could do nothing, not even as Owen joined them, his face contorted on a scream.
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