Harlequin Nocturne May 2016 Box Set

by Susan Krinard

  Ali turned soulful brown eyes, made even darker by their sidhe ring of fire, toward him. Lorcan wished he’d keep them on the road, particularly as they were navigating a narrow cliff-top bend, but he kept his thoughts to himself. “There are friends of yours imprisoned in the catacombs beneath the Kasbah.”

  Lorcan shook his head. “That’s not possible.” At Ali’s inquiring look, he elaborated. “I have no friends.”

  “Be serious, necromancer. Unless you can get them out, these two men are finished come sunset tonight.”

  “Why me? Why can’t the resistance here in Tangier do it?”

  “You will see.” They had reached the center of the town now and Lorcan fell silent as all of his energy was required to regulate his breathing and cling to his seat. They tore across lanes of oncoming traffic, squealed around bends and finally slammed to a halt, narrowly missing oncoming cars, camels, pedestrians and several goats.

  “Do your roads have lanes, traffic signals, anything that might give a clue about who has right-of-way?” Lorcan pried his fingers off the dashboard.

  Ali grinned. “Scared, necromancer?”

  “No. Bloody terrified.”

  It seemed they were abandoning the car in the middle of the road. Unwinding his long frame from the tiny vehicle, Lorcan followed Ali into the crowded streets of the ancient Kasbah. His sidhe companion moved with confidence through a series of increasingly narrow alleyways while Lorcan shrugged off offers of food, watches, livestock and sexual favors. They passed stalls selling pungent spices and colorful woven carpets until Ali ducked through a mosaic-encrusted arch into a sandstone courtyard.

  “This is the oldest part of the Kasbah.” Ali indicated the castellated fortress walls. “This building was a prison many thousands of years ago.”

  “What is it now?” Lorcan’s voice echoed oddly in the confined space. Or perhaps it was just the effect of the silence after the bustle of the Kasbah.

  Ali licked his lips and cast a glance over his shoulder. “A dark house.”

  A dark house was a very specific portal, one that led directly to the darkest, seediest underbelly of Otherworld. There were other portals—harmless ones—all over the world. Some of them, like Stonehenge, made grand statements. Most were quieter. It was the dark houses that the resistance fought a relentless battle to close down. From the outside, this place didn’t have the feel of a dark house. Lorcan should know. He had been in more than his fair share over the years.

  He glanced at the tiny square of blue sky that was still visible between the high sandstone walls. The sun was sinking from late afternoon into evening. Otherworld was closest at dawn and dusk. He should go, get out of here while he still could. Ali had said the two men had until sunset. Being a good guy never brought him easy choices.

  He sighed. “Take me inside.”

  The interior of the fortress was cool after the heat of a Moroccan summer day. Dust tickled Lorcan’s nostrils and caught in the back of his throat while something unpleasant crawled along his spine. And there it was. That dark house feeling. It was unmistakable. This one probably wasn’t used much anymore, which was why he hadn’t felt it instantly. They traversed empty corridors and passed ancient cells, their footsteps echoing in silence. The suffering of thousands of years hung heavy in the air.

  “Down here.” Ali indicated stone steps hewn into the floor.

  Lorcan gestured for the sidhe to go first. He might trust Ali, but he had done this sort of thing too many times. There was trust and there was gullibility. Lorcan knew which he preferred. They descended into total blackness. Lorcan extended a hand and light flickered around them.

  Ali gave an appreciative whistle. “I like the way you necromancers do that.”

  “We aim to please.”

  They reached a circular dungeon and Ali stepped back, allowing Lorcan to move into the center of the room. On one wall two men, both naked from the waist up, were suspended by manacles around their wrists. One was so badly beaten Lorcan could barely make out his features. He hung unconscious between his restraints. The other man raised his head as Lorcan approached. His lips curved into something that was almost a smile.

  “They promised you would come. It is too late for me, but there is still time to save my master.” His voice was heavily accented.

  “My God, Dimitar, what the hell has happened here?” Lorcan hurried forward. He was brought up short as Dimitar turned his head, revealing the telltale marks on his neck. There was no mistaking the puncture marks made by repeated vampire bites, even in the gloom of the catacombs.

  “Prince Tibor never forgave me for deserting him and choosing Jethro as my master instead. This is his revenge.” Until the recent battle, Dimitar had been the human slave of the all-powerful Prince of the Vampires.

  “Has he also been bitten?” Lorcan jerked a thumb in the direction of the unconscious man. He could see now, from his height and muscular physique, that it was Jethro de Loix, his fellow sorcerer. The mercenary who gave necromancing a bad name by selling his skills to the highest bidder. When he told Ali he had no friends, he wasn’t being entirely honest. He had Cal, and these two men had saved his life in the heat of the battle to reclaim Otherworld from Moncoya’s bloodthirsty ambitions. Some things went even deeper than friendship.

  “Only once. He is stronger than I. After the first time, he resisted and used his powers against the vampires. They chained him and brought their human servants to beat him each night. They promised me I would watch him die tonight.”

  “I don’t understand. A mortal has to willingly invite the vampire’s first bite.”

  “There was a woman...” Dimitar cast a sorrowful glance in Jethro’s direction.

  Lorcan laughed. “Say no more. Where Jethro is concerned, there is always a woman. Ali, can we get these manacles open?”

  “Yes. That is what we have been waiting for these past two days. One of our fighters stole the keys and made a copy.” He produced the keys from the pocket of his robes and handed them to Lorcan.

  “No.” Dimitar shook his head as Lorcan reached up to place the key in the lock at his wrist. “I told you it is already too late for me.” As he spoke, Lorcan could see his canine teeth lengthening. Darkness must be falling already outside. “Save my master.”

  Lorcan didn’t hesitate. There was no room for sentiment in a situation like this. Leaving Dimitar in his restraints, he turned to Jethro. “Unlock the manacles while I hold him.” He spoke over his shoulder and Ali hurried to do his bidding. Once free, Jethro slumped into Lorcan’s arms with a groan that indicated he was coming round.

  “That’s a relief. I didn’t fancy carrying you out of here, my large friend.” Lorcan eased Jethro’s long body down so that he was resting in a near-sitting position against the wall.

  “Lorcan? What the...?” Jethro sat up straighter, his half-closed eyes widening as they took in something behind Lorcan’s shoulder. “Watch out, she’s the one who got to me.”

  Lorcan rose to his feet as a stunningly beautiful, voluptuous woman entered the dungeon. She wore the traditional garments of a belly dancer, and her honeyed skin had a sheen that cried out to be touched. Thick ebony hair hung to her waist, and above the half veil that covered the lower part of her face, her huge almond-shaped eyes were enough to melt any man’s heart. It might almost be worth eternity as a vampire just for a bite from her. Lorcan shook the temptation away quickly, aware that she was already getting inside his head.

  “You are new.” She had shimmied across to him before he even noticed the movement. “And so very pretty.” Her grasping little hands reached for him.

  “Sorry. I prefer blondes.” No sooner had he spoken the words than his wayward mind decided to dwell on the one blonde he knew for sure he could never have. It was amazing how often it managed to do that. Resolutely, he turned his thoughts away from Princess
Tanzi and back to the matter before him.

  “Oflinnan.” Lorcan issued the halt command and the vampire’s eyes flickered briefly with surprise before she froze, becoming a statue of loveliness.

  “She has some nasty friends.” Jethro was struggling to his feet. “And they won’t be far behind. Let’s free Dimitar and get out of here.”

  He turned to where Dimitar hung in his manacles. The halt command had worked on him as well and he was frozen in position, his mouth open, revealing new, fully formed fangs. Even behind the mask of blood that covered Jethro’s swollen features, Lorcan could see the pain on his face.

  “They did this to him because of me. He lost his immunity when he switched allegiance. I won’t leave him here for them.” The words were wrenched from Jethro.

  “We can’t risk taking a vampire with us. He will want to feed.” Ali’s voice echoed high and panicky around the dungeon.

  “I want to get him out of here so I can stake and decapitate him. That way he can rest in peace instead of being in torment for all eternity.” Jethro’s response was hard, flat and—some might have said—uncaring.

  Lorcan gestured to Ali for the keys and, once the manacles were opened, Jethro hoisted Dimitar’s stiffened frame onto his shoulder.

  “These tunnels will take us beneath the city and closer to the coast.” With Ali in the lead, they made a silent, cautious trek through the tunnels. Some time later they exited out into the mimosa-scented Moroccan night.

  “There is a fishing boat waiting near the lighthouse. It will take you to Barcelona. Until we meet again, necromancer.” Ali clasped Lorcan’s hand. The little sidhe gave Jethro, who still carried Dimitar’s body, a wide berth. Lorcan began to walk toward the beach. He was halted in his tracks when Ali called out softly. “I almost forgot! You asked us to let you know if anything happened to Princess Tanzi.”

  “Yes?” Lorcan’s heart gave an uncomfortably loud thud. Just when he thought he’d trained it not to do that at the mention of her name. “What about her?”

  “Word came from Otherworld earlier today. She has disappeared.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Running away from home. Surely more the action of an angst-riddled teen than a mature adult? And certainly not one upon whom the political future of her dynasty depended. But Tanzi had agonized over her options before making this decision. There was no one in whom she could confide.

  Vashti was recovering well from the injuries she had sustained during the battle, but she was still weak. And could her sister be trusted not to share Moncoya’s feelings in this matter? Although they were twins, they had never been close. We are too different. She sees black and white, I see color. We both choose the fast lane, but she focuses on the road ahead, while I enjoy the scenery. Vashti is our father’s daughter. I am said to take after the mother we never knew. No, Tanzi could not share her plight with Vashti.

  Her instincts told her she could trust Cal and Stella. Intuition and certainty were two very different things, however. Did she want to give them more proof of her father’s depravity, even if it might lead to protection from the marriage he planned for her? The faeries were in turmoil, unsure of their loyalties, their confidence in tatters. Every day further proof of atrocities under Moncoya’s leadership emerged, yet he was still revered by his people. Tanzi felt the weight of her responsibility to the faerie dynasty and her sidhe heritage. She could not publicly denounce her father, no matter how villainous his latest scheme might be.

  That left her with only one option. If she was to avoid this marriage, she had to get away from Otherworld. She must put her trust in Cal to do the right thing for the faeries in her absence. There was only one person she could turn to. As crazy as it seemed, Tanzi was going to put Lorcan Malone’s promise to the test.

  The decision to seek refuge with him, once made, brought her a whole new set of problems. How would she find him? He had told her he would know if she needed him. But that must have been bravado. Something to impress the girl he had just rescued. Necromancers did not possess psychic powers. No, she would have to go in search of him. It was a daunting prospect. She knew little of the mortal realm. The only times she had interacted with humans in their own world had been when she was sent by her father to attack, assassinate or kidnap them.

  There was talk of a place in Barcelona, a resistance safe house. So well guarded it was impossible to gain entrance unless you knew the right people. Cal was known to be a resistance sympathizer, so perhaps his best friend also had links with the freedom fighters. La Casa Oscura, the dark house that led from the mortal realm to her father’s Otherworld palace, was also a conduit in the opposite direction. It would take her directly to the mortal city of Barcelona. If she went there and asked for Lorcan, perhaps she could get a message to him. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she had.

  Moncoya had always forbidden his daughters from using the portal. He had instilled in them a fear of the mortal realm that remained strong in Tanzi, teaching them that the earth-born were the enemy of the fae. Those thoughts persisted as she made her plans to leave. Not that she did much planning. She didn’t have time. Moncoya would act swiftly. Tanzi must do the same.

  That was how, two days after her meeting with Moncoya, she came to be standing on the Barcelona quayside, surrounded by a growing crowd of interested sailors, dock workers and one or two tourists. Patiently, Tanzi repeated the message she had rehearsed.

  “I need Lorcan Malone.”

  “Is it a publicity stunt? A trailer for a new film, maybe?” a passing tourist asked her husband. “I’m sure I know her face. Isn’t she that American actress, the one who won all those awards recently? She’s just as stunning in real life, and that outfit she has on must be worth a fortune.”

  Damn. She hadn’t thought the wardrobe aspect through. Hadn’t thought anything much through. Once she had decided to go she had done just that and gone, pausing only to stuff a few items of clothing into an overnight bag. Until now, she hadn’t given what she was wearing a second thought. The delicate lemon lace dress with its full, knee-length skirt and layers of petticoats was perfect for the dinner she had been about to attend with Cal, Stella and a number of Otherworld dignitaries. Her nude heels, piled-up hair, and understated makeup and jewelry were all precisely matched to the dress. It was what people expected of Princess Tanzi, Otherworld fashion icon. Instead of going to the dinner, she had thrown a soft, calf-skin jacket over the dress and marched out of her old life forever. With hindsight she should have taken the time to match her outfit to the new location.

  “Necesito Lorcan Malone.” Was she pronouncing his name wrong in their language? Did he use an alias when he was here? The faces of those around her remained blank.

  A sailor staggered close. “You can call me Lorcan Malone, querida. Before, during and after.” The eye-watering alcohol fumes on his breath caused Tanzi to take a step back. He followed, reaching out a hand to grip her arm. When she shrugged him off, he lost his balance and staggered, cursing. Tanzi didn’t dare hit him. One blow and she’d break his neck. She couldn’t risk drawing that sort of attention to herself. Unfortunately.

  There were too many people around her, and anywhere in this city was too close to La Casa Oscura. Her father’s spies were everywhere. Walk away, head down. Find somewhere quiet to come up with a better plan. Whatever you do, don’t draw any more attention to yourself. All good advice. Putting it into practice wasn’t going to be easy. The heels were not designed for a swift getaway. Note to self...if you find yourself in this situation again, raid Vashti’s street-inspired wardrobe before leaving.

  As Tanzi left the quayside—acutely aware of the small group of men following in her wake—the sheer magnitude of her error became instantly apparent. Barcelona wasn’t just a big city. It was enormous. Crowds thronged the pavement and traffic was bumper to bumper in the street. Noise, life, color and smell
all assailed her senses at once, stunning her into immobility. Buildings spread out around her, stretching high onto the hillsides as far as the eye could see. A laugh rose in her throat and met a gurgle of panic coming the other way. Her sheltered lifestyle hadn’t prepared her for this. In the past, each time she left her father’s palace, she had been surrounded by sidhe bodyguards. They had shielded her from harm and, she now appreciated, had hidden reality from her view, while she completed her assignments. Then they had escorted her back to safety. The substance of life in the mortal realm had never once been allowed to intrude into her carefully ordered existence. But had she really been naive enough to believe that she could step out of La Casa Oscura, simply speak Lorcan’s name and that the first person she came across would know whom she meant?

  “I truly did,” she murmured to herself, using the sound of her own voice to calm her nerves.

  The crowds flowed around her, but most seemed to be heading toward a wide, tree-lined street. She allowed herself to be drawn along with them. When she reached the mosaic-tiled thoroughfare, she paused. Leaning against a low wall, she gave herself a few minutes to assimilate her surroundings. Thankfully, there was no sign of her pursuers. Nearby, a youth was propelling himself across the street on a board on wheels. When he noticed Tanzi watching him, he performed a series of tricks for her benefit, finishing by flipping the board up into his hand, catching it and coming to join her. His smile was infectious and, in spite of her plight, she returned it.

  He held the board out to her in invitation. Tanzi indicated her clothing and he laughed. “Yeah, right. Not really dressed for skateboarding.”

  “How many people live here?”

  Her abrupt question made him blink and he shrugged. “In Barcelona? One and a half million, maybe? Probably more.”

  And she was looking for one man. The sad truth was that she had no idea if Lorcan was in this city at all. Even if he was in the country. Or this world. He had told her he was a wanderer. That meant he could be anywhere and that he was constantly on the move.