“What, exactly, is ‘everything’?” I ask.
“Jesus, Lore, everything,” he says, impatient. “She’s got a slight fever, and she’s still sweating pink, but otherwise, the doctors say she’ll be fine. Whatever the hell Cas gave me, it worked.” Another pause, and I can easily imagine Asher with his fist in his hair, pulling it out by the roots. “Hand to god, I’ll have her call you the second she wakes up.”
I’m not quite ready to give up on the subject, but I don’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter. “Okay, fine. But as soon as she wakes up.”
“Gotcha,” he promises.
I’m alone in the house. Well, I’m as alone as someone can be, surrounded by a small army of people that I barely hear or see. Occasionally I catch sight of Xaine’s housekeeper, Rosa, but the rest of them move like silent shadows, raking the leaves, cleaning the pool, dusting the marble bust of Xaine that’s stationed in the foyer. The man of the house bailed out a while ago, muttering something about getting me breakfast, although I don’t know when it became normal to eat breakfast at three PM.
Maybe right about the time you became platonic bedmates with a vampire.
Or maybe platonic-adjacent. I’d woken up draped over Xaine again, only this time he had his fingers threaded through the holes in my borrowed shirt, and he was idly plucking my nipple in his sleep. Hadn’t apologized for that, either, only gave me that signature fangy grin as he’d tossed his phone at me and headed downstairs wearing only a silk robe. I’d punched up Caspian Declan’s contact information and spent the better part of five minutes staring at it before scrolling back to find Asher’s number instead. He’d picked up on the first ring and relayed everything that happened at the hospital, plus how he got Jess cleaned up and tucked in at Phantom Firearms. Rationally, I know she’s as safe as she could be with him, and yet the irrational side of me wants to steal Xaine’s car again and go down there, if only to hold her hand while she sleeps and be there when she wakes up.
“You don’t have anything to worry about, either,” Asher says, reminding me he’s still on the line. “Benicio isn’t going to come anywhere near the mansion with the team I have in place there.” Another hesitation. “Don’t leave the house, Lore. I know it’s not fair to make you feel like a prisoner right now—”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, yeah, it’s the trial of the century to be holed up in a mansion in the Palisades—”
Asher runs over the top of my sarcasm with, “You could have just as easily ended up dead last night as…” He trails off, and I wait, but he doesn’t give me anything beyond a cough and a muttered, “Chasing you down once was enough, if you get my drift.”
“Yeah, I do. And I cross my heart promise that I’m looking forward to a very quiet day of planting my ass on Xaine’s couch with all the pizza and beer ever and not getting stalked by a serial killer, thanks.”
Oddly, Asher sounds amused when he says, “Good luck with the pizza and beer part of that plan. I’ve got the rest covered,” before he hangs up.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, wondering what he meant by that, then slowly exhale and pull up Caspian’s number again. This time, I don’t give myself a second chance to chicken out and hit “send” before I can reconsider. I sweat my way through six rings before it rolls over and I hear his voice—that voice—responding with “You’ve reached the voicemail of Caspian Declan.”
Then it beeps. No warning, no “leave a message and I’ll get back to you” pleasantries, just a beep and then the hissing crackle that tells me my awkward silence is being recorded for posterity.
“This is Lourdes Chase, calling from Xaine’s phone… but you probably already guessed that.” Wincing a little, I forge forward. “I think it’s important that we speak as soon as possible.” I pause, debating with myself before blurting out, “There are things I remember, and things I don’t, and a lot of things I don’t understand. You’re sorta… all of those things. If you could call me back? If not, I could… I could… I’ll try again later. Okay, um… thanks… bye.”
Positive that I’ve made a complete and utter ass of myself, I disconnect the call and drop the phone onto the nightstand.
“Didn’t pick up, I’m guessing,” Xaine observes from the doorway, and I jump a mile.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Probably busy.” Completely pokerfaced, Xaine heads for the closet. “Saving the world, curing disease, bringing fresh water to impoverished villages, that kind of thing. Oh, and banging Reille.”
“Does it bother you that he’s with her?” I ask, not sure I want to know the answer.
“Nope,” is the muffled reply. “I have zero fucks left for Reille or Cas. The two of them are welcome to each other.” Xaine heads for me with a second robe, which he drops in a silken puddle in my lap. “Put that on.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“You’re not the boss of me.” Except I can’t help the fact that I’m already smiling. “I was told there would be breakfast.”
“There is all the breakfast ever downstairs. And if you want to go down stark-naked, that’s your business. Will make for a very interesting start to our afternoon.”
“Why?” My stomach suddenly bottoms out. “What’s happening this afternoon?”
Because it could be anything, with Xaine. He could just as easily toss me on a plane as he could in the swimming pool. It could be a photoshoot, a movie shoot, a swanky party, or the two of us on the top of the tallest building downtown. Not to have dinner, but to base jump off the roof. Xaine doesn’t answer me, instead heading out of the bedroom like it’s just another day in paradise. I follow him, chin up, determined not to be the one who blinks first.
Which lasts about as long as it takes me to get a good look over the banister.
The entire first floor looks like the backlot at Universal Studios. Chairs and tables and lights occupy significant real estate. Black electrical cords snake across the marble, held in place with strips of gaffer’s tape. Xaine is three steps ahead of me, but I catch up and clamp down on his shoulder hard enough to make him pause on the first landing.
“What’s going on down there?”
He half-turns, grinning up at me as he reaches for my robe. “That? Is the beginning of a blitzkrieg.” His hands fiddle with the sash, pulling me down to meet him one inexorable stair at a time.
I resist, for whatever that’s worth. “And what, exactly, are we blitzkrieging?”
“You, sweetheart.” His eyes don’t waver from mine as he runs down the list, but there’s an evil glint lurking in those baby blues. “Hair and makeup in the game room. The light’s best in the foyer, so that’s where we’ll film the mini-interviews. They’ll give you a sheet of questions I approved, if you want to start thinking up some pretty answers.”
He’s said ten mouthfuls in as many seconds and I’m flailing, waving my hands at him until he stops the litany of All The Things. “But why?”
Xaine leans in, so the next bit is conspiratorial. “Shit like this happens, Lore, when a song no one was expecting from someone they’ve never heard of debuts at number five on the Top 100 charts.”
His words don’t really process until I blink, then blink again, staggered and thrown all at once. Suddenly, I’m getting the full gist of what I did the other day when I signed on the dotted line. My mind flashes back to the in-house studio, laying tracks for hours on end. Even then, head ducked close to Xaine’s, working over the harmonies and laying the tracks, it was just fun and games. Two people with like hobbies sharing a few precious hours of mutual passion. The strictly platonic sort.
Then I peered over that banister and saw Tinseltown staring back at me.
This is what hitting the big time looks like.
Holy fucking butts.
“But it’s not even a new song,” is my only line of defense. “It’s not even my song.”
“It’s new to them,” Xaine tells me with enviable nonchalance. “I
n less than twenty-four hours, this thing’s chewed up iTunes and spit it out again, not to mention Spotify, Pandora, and YouTube. And that is the glory of a digital world, sweetheart.”
I can only stare, slack-jawed, blindsided, and more than a little tempted to shove Xaine down these stairs. The only thing stopping me is the fact that he still has a death grip on my bathrobe. As it is, I barely manage to keep myself from turning around and marching back into the palatial bedroom, mostly for the same reason.
Stupid belt.
“Coffee first.” I might not normally drink it, but right now, I need it. I need time, too. Time to process, time to wake up, time get my mental shit together. “Please?”
“Sure.” Ever obliging, Xaine pats me on the butt and sends me off down the hall toward the kitchen.
I’ve explored it top to bottom, but the reality of Xaine’s house still surprises me. It’s not one of those ultra-modern places that’s all glass and metal. He didn’t veer in the opposite direction with faux-crumbling plaster and old Tuscan tapestries either. Instead, it’s… austere. Cold, beyond the temperature on the thermostat. There aren’t any mementos sitting on the tables scattered throughout, and the only photographs are massive black and white prints of Xaine from various photoshoots. The furniture looks like it came straight out of a Beverly Hills showroom. Everything from the heavy marble slab of a coffee table to the black colonial-style couch looks as if he walked into the model, slapped a handful of cash on the rolltop desk, and bought everything as is. It doesn’t even look lived in. No scratches, no scuff marks. Every surface as slick and shiny as the day it got delivered.
Usually it reads like a mausoleum, but today it’s a bonafide madhouse. People crisscross the floor space and gather in every corner. Tech ninjas set up cameras and lights, hang backdrops, and mill about behind big, fuzzy microphones. I pass a girl who looks like me, with the same skin tone, same hair, same height and weight and general body shape. They’ve got her positioned in front of the cameras, and one of the million people huddled around her is adjusting the lighting. There’s a guy who looks like Xaine next to her, and it’s weird, like I’m looking at a pair of Twilight Zone doppelgangers. They’re standins, but they’re creepily familiar nonetheless.
I’m so intent on staring that I trip over some wires and stumble awkwardly. The belt Xaine used for a leash comes loose, and the robe starts to slide open. Thankfully, I catch it before my bits and pieces are bared to the world, but the entire incident serves to remind me that I’m down here, milling through an honest-to-god throng in nothing but a bathrobe and a ratty T-shirt. From that point forward, I keep an iron grip on the silk and both eyes trained on the floor. I’m fine, right up to the moment that a dark-haired guy carrying two heavy-duty silver cases rounds a corner and nearly takes me out. As it is, I barely manage to flatten myself against the wall in time.
He flashes an apologetic grin that shifts to something else, like he’s running through a mental guest list and finally lands on my name. “Hey, it’s you!”
I blink, because it’s such a weird thing to say to someone you’ve never even met. He huffs a laugh, and the smile is back, this time with a dimple at the corner of his mouth.
“Sorry, I mean, you’re DJ Lore. I caught your act at Halo before you went supernova. Was already a huge fan.” He hitches the cases up, because they are heavy as hell, according to his bulging arm muscles.
“Halo?” I repeat, with no little bit of surprise. “We’re a long way from DC, sir. What were you doing at Halo?”
“I spent some time in that area,” he says, almost apologetically. “Sorry, I know these Hollywood types are all slick as shit about stuff like this.”
“Meaning you’re not a Hollywood type?” I’m starting to wonder if it’s smart, standing here in the hall with a guy I don’t know. Black T-shirt, ripstop pants, built like a Greek god but lean as a whippet. When he moves, it’s with an easy grace that suggests… well… exotic dancer.
Or a guy completely at home in his own body. Geez, Lore, get a grip.
“I’m with Asher’s crew,” he says with a shake of the head. “Name’s Lonan. I’d offer a hand—”
“Otherwise occupied. No worries.” Even if he’s with PFC, I feel better about skipping the handshake. After Benicio, I’m wary of touching strangers, and even thinking about that is enough to bring out the goosebumps. “It was nice to meet you, Lonan, but I need to get coffee and then…” I vaguely wave at Everything Else going on down the hall.
“I don’t want to get between you and your caffeine fix. And you don’t have to worry about your safety either.” Lonan’s eyes go dark, his easygoing expression hardening, almost like he dove inside my head and plucked out my thoughts. “We’ve got this, Miss Chase. The security, I mean. We locked absolutely everything down after the most recent attack—”
“The one in Xaine’s pool, you mean?” Phrasing it that way is disconcerting, because the pool in question is visible through a set of French doors. They drained it and are in the process of scrubbing it out, but I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable enough to swim in the damn thing—
“No, the other girl,” Lonan corrects, hitching up the boxes again. “The one from last night.”
“Wait, what?” I ask him, my world falling out from under me. “What ‘one from last night’?”
“Uh…” he hedges, realizing how much he just screwed up. “Xaine didn’t mention that?”
“He sure as hell did not. And neither did your boss when we spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Uh…” Lonan repeats, trying to sidestep me. “Maybe they were saving that for after the junket.”
“I’ll ‘junket’ them.” Then, because he’s still trying to get away, I slap a palm against the opposite wall, barring him from moving. Oh, sure, he could probably walk right through it and keep on going, but if Asher’s men are anything like Asher himself, I doubt he will. “Let me guess. Blonde. Leggy. Looked a lot like me?”
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Sometime after you guys left the warehouse.” Beads of sweat gather on Lonan’s brow, but I’m not sure if that’s because his arms are giving out or because I’m grilling him.
“And Asher thinks it was Benicio again.” Not a question this time, because we both know the answer. The sin-eater got close enough to rub up against me, fought a not-vampire so I could get to safety, and then I took off with Xaine again. So he found someone who looked like me, killed her, and dumped her again.
“Miss Chase,” Lonan grunts out, “would you mind not shooting the messenger?”
“Fine. Yeah.” I back off, realizing it’s not exactly his fault that the other men in my life have been less than forthcoming.
“I meant what I said. We’ve got the security loopholes on the property covered, and the house is pretty much buttoned up. If you need anything else, let me know.” Lonan offers up one last smile before he lopes off.
Rosa finds me there, staring after him, and she hustles me into the kitchen. If the foyer is organized chaos, then this is the military base camp. There are massive thermal pots for coffee and hot water. A mini-fridge set up for sodas. Plastic-wrapped flats of bottled water. A heating drawer that, on further inspection, is stocked with Type O packs. That means that there are vampires other than Xaine in the house right now, because even on a good day he couldn’t run through this much blood. I’m not afraid, but I don’t like the idea of it. For some strange reason, it doesn’t seem right. This is his place. His home.
My eyes skim over the kitchen, taking in the bones beneath all the writhing tissue. Like the rest of the mansion, the space is lacking in any sort of welcome. Every room, except for those that Xaine occupies regularly, is completely devoid of personality, and maybe that is exactly the way he intended it.
The separation of Church and State.
I get about ten seconds to scarf down a scone and a cup of light-and-sweet coffee before someone snags me by the elbow and I end up in a chair
in the game room, which is serving as an improvised dressing room. There’s a pool table, jukebox, neon-lit bar, and a row of vintage pinball machines. Somehow, it’s hard to picture Xaine hanging out in a man cave, but judging by the scuff marks, the pool table has seen quite a bit of use. Whether it was used for a good old-fashioned game of eight-ball or a rousing game of one-pocket is anyone’s guess, but I’d wager that any horizontal surface sturdy enough for two people probably sees a surfeit of action in this house.
Right now, the only action involves three people grabbing at my hair and dabbing at my face. Another three stand by a rack of clothes, tapping their collective toes until they can get their hands on me. Like vultures, they all smile wide and put their heads together to talk, but frankly, I’m more concerned about the third dead girl on my conscience than whatever they might do. I think about her as the hair stylist puts in massive Velcro rollers, winding them so tightly that I can feel each strand tugging painfully at my scalp. I wonder who she was and why she was in LA as they spackle foundation on with a trowel and glue inch-long false eyelashes to my eyelids.
Someone’s daughter… mother… lover… wife.
They don’t even attempt to cover up the bite marks on my neck. Instead, the area gets highlighted with a pale cream so that the holes stand out in even greater relief. Considering the way they are trying to bring attention to Xaine’s puncture wounds, I’m surprised they don’t smear the whole area with glitter. Meanwhile, all I can think about is the fact that I’m shacked up with the sexiest bad boy on the planet, getting ready to talk about my Top Five song, closer to Cas Declan than ever before, and all it cost was three human lives. Doesn’t really seem worth it anymore.
Because it’s all my fault.
“Up.” The stylist glaring at me is the same one that dressed me the night of the lockdown, even if she didn’t do much except squeeze me into the skimpy outfit Xaine had already picked out. She looks mad now, and I wonder if she’s still pissed about the shoes.
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