by J. K. Beck
“No,” he said. “That’s not what I was thinking. It’s just—Petra, your story doesn’t make sense.”
She stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“It’s the Touch that transforms someone else into a monster, and it’s childbirth that cures the cursed?”
“Yeah.” She tilted her head to the side. “Well, not the act of childbirth, but the birth of a child. I mean, if Kiril were the firstborn, then his curse would lift when his child is born. When the cord is cut, if you want to get all technical about it.”
“Ah …” He hesitated, sounding both amused and uncomfortable. “Sweetheart, I know you’re not experienced in these things, but it’s supremely difficult to get a girl pregnant without actually touching her.”
She blinked, then looked him dead in the eye. “Turkey baster,” she said, then burst out laughing at his horrified expression. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just … you were approaching the subject so delicately. You. I think you were even blushing.”
“Me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that considering your reputation, I wouldn’t have expected you to get all shy about sex.”
He leaned casually against the wall. “Reputation?”
She stared him down. “Don’t even,” she said, then grinned. “But thanks for the laugh.”
“Happy to be of service, but I still think I’m missing the big picture here.”
“Right. Well, there’s kind of an escape clause. Probably because whoever cursed us in the first place saw the very same problem you did, and wanted to make sure our line kept going on and on.”
“What kind of an escape clause?”
“The night of a blue moon,” she said. “That’s when there’s an extra full moon. They don’t happen very often. Years can go by.”
“I know what a blue moon is,” he said.
“Oh. Good.” She felt her cheeks burn, but forced herself not to look away. To keep this conversation strictly businesslike. “Well, during that night, from sunset to sunrise, I can touch without doing harm.” She felt her insides jolt as she remembered the way she felt when a blue moon filled the sky.
She’d never been with a man—not like that—and not because she hadn’t wanted to. Not that she’d ever wanted a specific man—she’d never let herself fall in love—but on that night … dear heaven, on that night her body longed to be taken, to be held, to be ravaged.
So far, she hadn’t managed it.
The first time it had hit after puberty, she hadn’t realized what was going on until it was too late. The next time, she’d been twenty and visiting Joshua Tree with Kiril—which meant no matter how freaking horny she was, there wasn’t a man around to satisfy that urge.
Kiril had sat with her, though, letting her lean against him and hold his hand, so that at least for once she could feel the sensation of skin against skin, and he’d made the time pass by spinning wild stories for her. Tales that he later wrote in his notebooks and then slid into a drawer despite her constant urgings that he should send them to magazines and try to have them published.
The next time, she’d told Kiril that she was going to spend the night doing the L.A. club scene. She’d ordered clothes online, practiced her makeup for days, and fantasized about the men she’d press against on the dance floor.
But an hour before sunset, she’d begun throwing her guts up, her stomach so wrenched with a virus or food poisoning that she could only stay inside and let Kiril cater to her and tell her that there was always the next blue moon to look forward to. It had sucked, but she’d been grateful she had a brother who stuck it out with her.
While her stomach had roiled, Kiril held her hand and stroked her hair, letting her have the sensation of touch as he talked her through the night, keeping her grounded and centered. Once or twice she’d gotten so frustrated with being sick that she’d actually been disloyal enough to wonder if he’d done something to her food to make her ill, but then she’d mentally kicked herself for thinking such mean thoughts. Kiril was her rock. He loved her. And because of him she’d been able to keep her sanity on those rare, mystical nights, and for that, she’d always be grateful.
Now, though …
Now, she remembered the way she’d come out of the mist, full of the sensation of being twined with Nick.
She looked at him now, and reveled in the heat that seemed to flood her as she opened herself to the memory, delicious and sweetly erotic and maddeningly ephemeral.
They’d merged like a cloud with a cloud. How much more sweet would it be to feel flesh against flesh?
She didn’t know, but the blue moon was coming, and this time it wasn’t going to be Kiril with her.
This time, it would be Nicholas.
CHAPTER 10
“No, I’m safe. Really.” Petra pressed the handset more firmly against her ear and shifted her position, giving the room—and the group within it—her back. On the other end of the line, Kiril was demanding an explanation, a location, something, and she felt like a complete shit because she couldn’t give it to him. They wouldn’t let her give it to him.
Nicholas eased up beside her, sliding into her field of vision, and a knot of irritation twisted in her gut. She knew what she had to do, but there he was, hovering as if he didn’t trust her to do it.
He tapped his wrist, and even though he wore no watch, she knew he was telling her to hurry up.
“Kiril—Kiril, just let me get a word in, okay? I’m fine, but I need help. Meet me in the El Capitan theater, okay? One hour. And Kiril? Make sure you’re not followed.”
She hung up before he could protest anymore, then faced Nicholas straight on. “I don’t like lying to him.”
“It’s necessary. They’ll be watching him. Sending him away from where we need to be is going to buy us time.”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely,” Nicholas countered.
She shrugged. She was being contrary, and she knew it, but she’d told him so much—exposed so much of herself to him. It had felt right in the dim light of the little room they’d stuck her in. But now, under the harsh glare of the fluorescent tubes, she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. Like he really needed to know about her birth memory. Like she really wanted him to see her cry.
“He’s my brother,” she said. “He should be helping me. Protecting me. That’s what he does.”
“And now it’s what I do.” Nicholas’s voice was hard—no nonsense—and Petra closed her eyes, wishing things were different. Wishing Kiril were there. Wishing that the life she woke up to every day wasn’t her own.
But at the same time so damn thankful that she was alive. And it wasn’t Kiril to whom she owed her life. In a way it wasn’t even Nicholas.
He’d only saved her in the hopes of saving Serge.
Which meant she owed her continuing heartbeat to the very monster she created.
Pretty damned ironic when you thought about it.
A huge conference table filled most of the room, and she left Nicholas standing by the wall, then took the seat at the far end of the table, the farthest away from the other men, Rand and Luke. From two chairs down, Lissa smiled at her, and the expression was so warm and genuine that Petra couldn’t help but smile back. Then again, Lissa was a succubus, so who knew what kind of happy juice the girl was filling the room with.
“He’s not being fair,” Lissa said, sliding into the empty chair beside her.
“Nicholas? He damn sure isn’t. If we’re going to go on a scavenger hunt to end this curse, Kiril should be with me. Hell, he’s lived with it as long as I have.”
“I guess he has,” Lissa said. “But what I meant was that he didn’t tell you why. He’s not the kind of guy who does things by committee, you know? He says what he wants, and it happens. No explanation, no worries.” She shot a quick glance toward Rand. “You’ve been living in the shadow world long enough to know that’s not an uncommon male trait.”
“So what didn’t he tell me?”
“But if it’s magic they track, won’t they find me now?”
“This place is protected,” Nicholas said. “You don’t have enough magic to push past the barriers.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Well, then. I guess I’m lucky I’m so inadequate at—oh, shit. I didn’t even think—”
“What?” Luke demanded.
“The binding spell.” She looked between Nicholas and Rand. “I told you both about it before. Kiril’s bound to protect me, and to do that, he has to be able to find me. That’s part of our grandmother’s spell. He can feel me. Can search me out.”
The others exchanged glances. “Can you feel him? Is he on his way here?”
“No. It’s a one-way thing. Shit.” She levered herself up out of the chair, then started pacing, suddenly afraid. “What if he’s just playing me? What if he’s not going to the theater, but he’s on the way here, and they’re following him?”
“We have protections, Petra,” Nicholas said. “We told you.”
“Not against my grandmother’s spell.” She could see they didn’t believe her. But she knew. She knew. Kiril would find her.
“Even if you’re right,” Lissa said, “you told him you were safe. He’s got to know searching you out could be a risk.”
“As far as he knows, you folks are a risk, too.” And they were. If they knew the truth, they really were. “Besides, you don’t get it. It’s a binding spell. He’ll come for me. He has to.”
There wasn’t a doubt in her mind. Her brother looked after her with a fierceness that was more than just a family bond, or even the bond of twins. No, their grandmother’s last spell had done the job, and done it well. Maybe too well, if by looking for her, he’d also be leading the Alliance to her.
“It will be fine,” Rand said. “This warehouse is fortified with all sorts of protections, not just ones that shield magic. You’re safe enough in here.”
She frowned, not believing it for a minute.
“And when they leave?” Lissa asked. “Kiril will be all over Petra, and the Alliance will be all over him.”
“Let me call him back. Tell him not to follow me.”
“How sensitive is this binding spell?” Nicholas stood calmly against the wall, watching no one but her.
“It’s—what do you mean?”
“Pinpoint accuracy?”
She shook her head, understanding what he was thinking. “No. No, just the general area. A city block, maybe. And even less accurate the farther away I am from him.”
“So right now you’re golden,” Nicholas said. “Even if he can sense where you are, it’s too broad an area, and the signal will be even more fuzzy with our protections. Besides, he has no reason to come. Right now, he thinks you’re coming to him.”
“And soon you won’t even blip on his radar,” Luke added.
“Why?” She glanced at Nicholas, but it was Rand who answered.
“Gunnolf’s prepared to help,” he said, referring to the Paris-based therian—or shape-shifter—liaison to the Alliance. “Under the table, of course.”
Petra bristled. “Maybe he should have thought of that before they stuck me in an execution cell.”
“Maybe he should have,” Rand said. “But if he had, then they’d be watching him now. This way, he can actually help you. And he wants to, Petra. He told me how grateful he is for the role you played in keeping his Alliance seat secure.”
“That’s me,” Petra said. “The Alliance’s go-to girl.” She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled, but truthfully, she was pleased. Because of what she and Serge had done, the Alliance had to publicly acknowledge that the therian leader had played no role in a spate of human murders that had rocked Los Angeles. Without those charges hanging over his head, Gunnolf was able to maintain his seat at the Alliance table.
In other words, he was just as indebted to Petra as Tiberius was. Gunnolf, though, was actually doing something about it.
“Look,” she said grudgingly. “That’s nice but if he’s not going to buck up against the Alliance, what exactly can he do for us?”
“He can lend you his plane and his pilot,” Rand said. “It’s here, hangared in Burbank. Same plane I flew in on a few months ago.”
“And the pilot?”
“He’s solid,” Rand said. “He’ll do whatever Gunnolf says, no questions asked.”
“Then that’s how we get to Paris,” Nicholas said.
“Paris?” Petra asked.
“Don’t expect Gunnolf to meet with you in person,” Rand said. “He’s offered the plane. I don’t think he’d agree to a face-to-face.”
“And I wouldn’t ask for one,” Nicholas continued. Something like regret shadowed Nicholas’s face, and he looked away, focusing his attention only on Luke. “I need to find Ferrante.”
Whatever Luke might have been expecting Nicholas to say, it wasn’t that, and surprise registered on those stoic features. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“We need a cure,” Nicholas said. “And if anyone can find one, I think it’s Marco.” He straightened his shoulders. “It has been a very long time. He will not turn me away.”
She couldn’t hold her questions in any longer. “Wait a sec,” Petra said, moving to stand in Nicholas’s line of sight. “Who is Ferrante?”
Nicholas hesitated, but she shook her head. “Oh no. Everything, remember? What’s good for the goose is good for the vampire, and all that shit.”
“He’s an alchemist,” Nicholas said after a hesitation so brief she wouldn’t have noticed had she not been looking for him to dodge the question. “Once, he was a friend.”
She heard the edge in his voice. “Once?”
“Later,” he said. “We need to move.”
“Wait. How long ago did you know him?”
He met her eyes. “I haven’t seen him for more than seven hundred years.”
“Oh.” She took a small step back. She’d lived in this world long enough not to be surprised, but still … “I guess he’s an alchemist who knows his stuff.”
Nicholas turned to Rand. “The hangar number?”
“Fifteen.”
“I’m glad you’re going to Paris,” Lissa said. “I’ve remembered something from there.”
Petra turned toward Lissa, her heart pounding. “Wait. What? You’ve remembered something?” As a succubus, Lissa had lived multiple lives. And although she didn’t remember many of those lives in detail, she’d once told Petra that she did remember something about a monster like Serge. A monster created by touch. A clue, maybe, to Petra’s background. At the time, though, she couldn’t recall any of the details.
“Not much, but, yeah. A glimpse, a name. Rumors that her touch destroyed. And Paris.” She closed her eyes as if trying to draw the memory closer to her, then shook her head, frustrated. “But that’s all.”
“What name?” Petra asked, hoping it was someone new, and not someone in her family tree.
“Vivian Chastain,” Lissa said, and from the far side of the room, Luke swore under his breath.
“Chastain?” Nicholas repeated. “You’re certain?”
Lissa reached out, finding Rand’s hand, as her eyes darted between the two vampires. “As sure as I can be about a hazy memory. Why?”
Luke looked hard at Nicholas, who nodded.
“Dammit,” Petra said. “What’s going on? Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said. “Not really. But in 1714, I was ordered to kill her. More specifically, I was ordered to use a sniper’s bullet. No contact.” His smile was thin. “Not my usual style.”
Petra’s throat thickened, and she had to try twice to get the words out. “Oh. At least I got a trial. For what it’s worth, anyway.”
“Were you told anything about her?” Lissa asked. “Anything about her background? Her family? Anythi
ng that might help Petra?”
Nicholas shook his head. “I was Luke’s second. They told us nothing.”
“A second?” Petra asked. “Is that usual?”
“No,” Luke said.
“Apparently the Alliance was taking no chances.”
The fact that Petra’s heart still beat suddenly seemed like even more of a miracle than it had a few hours ago. She turned to Lissa. “Do you remember anything else?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Petra said, though she wanted to scream with frustration. “We know I’m not the only one. And we know the Alliance has killed to stop the Touch before.” She drew in a breath. “Killed instead of cured. Maybe there isn’t a way.”
“We’ll find one. We’ll go to Ferrante.”
The sharp chirp of a phone startled them all, with the exception of Luke, who pulled out his phone and eagerly opened it, then listened to the caller before ending the call and facing the group. “I can see Sara now,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. And before anyone had the chance to say good-bye, he’d transformed into sentient mist and was racing toward the exit.
“We need to go, too,” Nicholas said to Petra. “Your house first, then straightaway to Paris.”
He held out his arms, and she took an automatic step backward.
“Only for a moment,” he said. “Two layers of cloth and it will only be an instant before we’re mist.”
She didn’t argue, realizing as she moved toward him that there was more anticipation than fear associated with the action. Not good. She couldn’t become lax about touch. Not now, not ever.
“Why do we need a plane?” she asked. “If we can travel like this, what’s the point?”
“Your body wouldn’t take it,” he said matter-of-factly. “Are you ready?”
But before she could say that she most certainly was not ready—not after hearing that traveling by mist lacked the National Transportation Safety Board seal of approval—he dissolved. And Petra, of course, dissolved with him.
CHAPTER 11