When Wicked Craves

by J. K. Beck

  As if in answer, the deep, sultry strains of “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe” filled the room.

  “You want slow?” Nicholas asked, pulling her tight against him. “I give you Barry White.”

  “Perfect,” she said, laughing as she threw her arms around his neck. “Even better than a night on the town.”

  “I will take you out,” he said. “You want to go clubbing, I’ll take you there.”

  “When the curse is lifted,” she said.

  He pressed a kiss against her ear. “Or the next blue moon,” he whispered, his soft breath and sensual tone making her tremble as much as the idea of being in his arms years from now when an extra moon filled the sky. It wasn’t the kind of thing she usually let herself think about. But tonight … well, tonight she would let herself believe in miracles.

  They danced for hours, their bodies moving in time with the music, in front of the windows overlooking the city, in the shower with water sluicing over them. Danced, and made love, and when her body couldn’t handle it any longer, she fell asleep in his arms, feeling warm and utterly content.

  At least until the dreams started.

  Her mother, screaming out her name.

  Her father, reaching for her.

  Nicholas, stroking her skin, then changing. Shattering and shifting. Changing into something horrible. Something vile.

  Except it wasn’t him. It was Sergius. And suddenly he was sinking into the earth. Disappearing. And Petra was breathing a sigh of relief.

  And then he was rising back out again, full of purpose, full of the need to kill. And he stormed over the earth, ripping off limbs, tearing off heads, until all Petra could do was stand in a pool of blood that grew deeper and deeper and—

  “Petra!”

  Nicholas. Not shattered. Not dead.

  “Petra! Wake up.” He shook her. Gently at first, then harder. “Wake up, dammit. Wake up!”

  She blinked, realized he was holding her, then scrambled away, her heart pounding in fear even as her mind ordered her to calm down, telling her it was a blue moon, she was fine, she could touch, it was fine.

  Slowly, Nicholas came to her, then gently hooked his arm around her. She closed her eyes and leaned against him. She’d pushed him away on the plane. Now she wanted him. Wanted him, and wanted the comfort he could give.

  “He needs to kill,” she said, realizing the truth of her words as she spoke. Somehow, she knew exactly what Serge would do. “Nicholas, oh God, it’s like he’s compelled to rip and tear and kill and—”

  “Shhh. He’s locked up. You had a dream, and it’s horrible, and we’re going to fix it. But right now, he’s locked up tight.”

  She nodded. “Right. Right.” But somehow she couldn’t stop shivering.

  “I’ve got you,” Nicholas said, stroking her hair. “We have plenty of time before sunrise.”

  “Will you hold me?”

  “I am holding you,” he said. “And nothing’s going to make me let go.”

  “The sun’s going to rise in just a few short hours,” Petra said. She’d been pressed up against him, her warmth easing through him. Now she sat up, and the shock of cold air from her departure made him shiver.

  He pressed a hand to her shoulder, and she covered it with her own, then stood. She went to the window and pressed her hands to the glass. He turned on a light, not because he needed it to see, but because he wanted to see her face reflected in the glass, and with the room darkened he could see only the sprawl of Manhattan.

  Right then, he cared nothing for the city or the view. He cared only for her.

  He flipped the switch, and she flinched, then brushed her eyes with the pad of her thumb, as if she realized what he’d done and intended to reveal nothing.

  “Now I have two reasons to dread the sun,” he said.

  Her shoulders rose and fell as she took a breath, then she turned to him. “Are we staying here for the day?”

  “No.” He stood and began to pull on his clothes. “We need to get to Paris.”

  “Of course.” She looked back out the window. “Do you really think he’ll help us?”

  Nick stepped up behind her and clasped his hands around her waist. “You mean will he help me.”

  She nodded.

  “It’s a fair question after what I did—what my daemon did. But Serge’s rampage is a lot like that, and I think—I hope—that he will want to help us stop that kind of carnage from running loose in the world.”

  “If he doesn’t?”

  “He will,” Nick said, with all the certainty he could muster. “I truly believe that. Marco has a scientist’s mind, and you’re something unique, Petra. Despite the history between Marco and me, I think he will want to help us, if only for the selfish reason of studying you.”

  “Great,” she said, but she was smiling. After a minute, though, the smile faded. “It’s hard not to be too hopeful.”

  “I know. Come here.” He pulled her into his arms and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. He didn’t want it to, but his heart twisted. He’d touched her, so intimately. And though it was unexpected, she’d touched him. Him, Nicholas Montegue, who knew how to manufacture the illusion of desire. Somehow, he’d gotten caught in the real thing, and the burden of it weighed heavy and unfamiliar upon his shoulders.

  He’d desired many women for their flesh, for the sweet pleasure of their company, but to truly desire the woman? That he had not experienced since Lissa.

  Until now.

  Rationally, he thought that he should be pleased to know that his heart hadn’t shriveled up and died. But he wasn’t pleased. He had no need to pursue intimacy. The world had much to offer, and the pleasures of the intellect could fill the gaps of a thousand lifetimes.

  He used to believe that utterly, and he’d gotten comfortable with his routine. One night, one woman, with repeats only when both parties fully understood the score. Nothing that would foster intimacy. Why would he want it, when the last woman he’d let close had betrayed him and then beat the shit out of his heart?

  So was it any wonder that the way Petra had wormed her way into his mind troubled him? Especially since Petra was a one-night woman by definition. There would not be another blue moon this year. Perhaps not even next, or even the year after that.

  He would not touch her again soon—but dammit, he wanted to.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  He realized he let her go, and was now jamming his arm through the sleeve of his shirt so hard that the material was at risk of tearing. “Nothing,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “Good to know. Of course, if this is fine, I’d hate to ever see you truly angry.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m … frustrated.”

  “Me, too.” Her smile was both sad and sultry, and he felt guilty for speaking to her at cross-purposes.

  “The way you feel beneath my fingers will be forever burned in my memory,” he said. In saying the words, he hoped only to make her feel better, but as soon as he spoke, he knew the words were true.

  “Get dressed,” he said. “We need to beat the sun.”

  “How are we getting there, anyway?”

  “We’re flying.”

  “Gee, great. Another chance to get thrown out of an airplane. Lucky me.”

  “Serge has a plane that he has kept unknown to the Alliance. We should be able to travel undetected.”

  “Who’s going to fly it?”

  “I will.”

  She squinted at him. “That means you have to sit in a cockpit and look out a window.” She pointed out the window. “In case you forgot, the sun’s going to eventually rise.”

  “The windows are of the same material as these.”

  She nodded. “And you can really fly?”

  “Hundreds of years provide ample time to advance one’s education in a number of areas.”

  “You’re talking old-fashioned again.”

  “Perhaps you affect me that way.”

  “Some women br
ing a man to their knees with only a glance. I make them talk all hoity-toity. It’s a gift.”

  “Or a curse,” he said, pleased to see her mouth twitch with the joke.

  “I’ve already got one of those,” she said. “Trust me when I say that I don’t need another.”

  Her brow furrowed, then cleared as she turned to look out the window.

  He knew her well enough now, though. Something was on her mind. “The nightmare?”

  “Sorry. It just left me feeling antsy.”

  “It was just a dream.”

  She met his eyes in the reflection. “I would have thought a man like you would be more open to the idea that dreams have power.”

  “I am,” he said, then pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “But not if the dreams upset you.”

  She moved away from him, focusing on the window instead of the man. Making herself focus on the window, because, dammit, all she wanted to do was cling to him. To stay in this apartment with the blue moon forever suspended in the sky. Her whole life, she’d managed to deal with what she was, but somehow with Nicholas, she’d lost the ability to cope.

  She wanted him, and she couldn’t have him, and she wanted to rage against the injustice. But there was no one to rage against. No one except herself, because she’d been stupid enough to open her heart, telling herself silly lies about how all she wanted was sex. All she wanted was to feel a man’s touch.

  She’d been a fool. She wanted more, so much more, and it pissed her off that she couldn’t have it no matter how hard she wished.

  “Petra?”

  She turned to him and conjured a forced smile, hoping he couldn’t see her pain, because he would try to soothe it, and right then she didn’t think she could take the kindness. “The sun will be up soon. We need to go.”

  “There’s something we need to do first,” he said, then headed toward the kitchen. She followed, her curiosity growing when he began pulling an odd assortment of things from the cabinets. “Dump these out,” he said, handing her three plastic soda bottles. “Keep the caps, but rinse them well.”

  She complied, knowing he had a purpose even if she couldn’t see it yet, and also knowing that it was important they hurry.

  “When you finish that, take the tinfoil and make a dozen or so small balls.”

  “Right,” she said. She finished the bottles, started on the balls, and couldn’t hold her questions in any longer. “What are we doing?”

  He turned to her, serious. “Making bombs.”

  She glanced down at the crumpled balls of foil, then back up at Nicholas. “Whatever you say.”

  “This apartment has protections,” he said, “and we had no indication of any Alliance flunkies approaching, and all of that is good. But I’m not inclined to trust our good luck to continue, and when we leave, I want us prepared to defend ourselves.”

  “You’re a vampire,” she said, because she’d seen over and over again in her work the kind of damage a vampire could do.

  “So I am,” he said. “But you’re not. And if there are several waiting to ambush us, even my skills will be insufficient to ensure our safety. So I intend to go into the mix as well armed as possible.”

  “We could go as mist. Not all the way to Paris, but just to the airport.”

  He shook his head. “No. You were too weakened the last time.”

  “But I drank from you.”

  “To cure damage already done.” He looked at her, and the heat in his eyes nearly brought her to her knees. “No. I won’t risk you that way. Not if we have a choice.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “So we make bombs.” She looked at the stuff he’d pulled out onto the counter. The foil, the soda bottles, toilet bowl cleaner, some flour, a cigarette lighter, even the box of condoms.

  “Fascinating what chemistry can yield, isn’t it? Refreshment,” he said, pointing to the soda bottle and flour. “Pleasure,” he added with a nod to the condoms. “It’s all about the mixture. All about the proportion. In many ways, chemistry is a metaphor for life.”

  “So you know all this chemistry and science stuff, but you ended up being an advocate.” She finished with the tinfoil balls and climbed up onto a stool to watch him work. “What’s up with that?”

  “If you’re done, maybe you should concentrate on a weapon of your own.”

  “What?”

  “Fire,” he said. “You managed during our escape because of adrenaline and focus.”

  “I did?”

  “I’m quite confident. What you want to do is practice honing the focus so that you don’t need the adrenaline.”

  “Oh.”

  “Go on,” he said. “I’ve got a few more minutes with this before we’re ready to go.”

  Since he insisted, she tried, focusing on her hand as she tried to conjure a tiny, whirling fireball.

  Nothing.

  “Talk to me while I do this,” she said. “Answer my question. How’d you end up being a lawyer type?”

  “You’re assuming they’re mutually exclusive,” he said. “But what is chemistry but the process of finding balance in the universe, and what is the law but the process of finding balance in society?”

  “Okay,” she said, her eyes on her palm, her mind on the fire. Calling. Bringing. “But?”

  “But nothing. I realized after a while that although that axiom is true, there is also a fundamental difference.”

  “Yeah?” The earth, the sun, the power …

  “Chemistry is precise. Two hydrogen and one oxygen atom always make up water. But the law fluctuates. It falls out of balance. Within the law there is room to maneuver, and after I was offered the chance by Tiberius to study the shadow law, I learned that I had a gift for those maneuvers.”

  “Skirt the law, walk the line,” she said.

  “Something like that. Now,” his voice lowered. “Keep your focus. Draw it up. And push.”

  She tried, pulling and drawing and then— Poof! A tiny fireball erupted above her palm, fading just as fast as it had appeared.

  “I did it! Holy shit, I did it!”

  “I never doubted for a minute. Control. That’s the key.”

  “And how do you know so much about it?”

  “Some vampires’ daemons live close to the surface,” he said. “Trust me when I say that I understand control. And that I’ve mastered it.” He swept his hand, indicating the countertop, now littered with homemade pyrotechnics.

  “Very cool,” she said. “These are bombs?”

  “Explosives,” he said, pointing to the soda bottles filled with toilet cleaner. “And smoke bombs,” he added, this time pointing to the condoms blown up like balloons, filled with flour, and tied at the ends.

  “This is the kind of thing you used when you got us out of Division, isn’t it?”

  “Similar,” he said. “I had access to more precise ingredients and the luxury of choosing what I wanted to create. The Du Yao Yan Qiu that burned your eyes was a modification of an ancient Chinese poison bomb.”

  “Temporary poison,” she said, unable to suppress the wish that he’d taken the Tribunal members out once and for all.

  He flashed a crooked grin, obviously understanding the direction of her thoughts. “I had a few deadlier options at hand, just in case I needed more firepower.”

  “Really? You would have really killed Alliance members?”

  His expression was hard and unyielding. “To save Serge? Of course. Without hesitation, without doubt.”

  Petra swallowed, but nodded, hoping he couldn’t see her discomfiture. Because right then all she could think of was what she’d known back when he’d first taken her from Division: that if Nicholas knew her secret, it would be she—and not the Tribunal—who would die by his hand.

  Dirque paced the living room of the home he kept in Los Angeles. A fortress, really. Two acres in Beverly Hills, with an eight-foot fence surrounding the property, and armed Alliance soldiers guarding the perimeter. Possibly overkill for one with his in
nate power, but in light of Tariq’s latest report, he felt that caution was advised.

  Sergius alive. By the gods, surely that couldn’t be possible.

  Not that Dragos was admitting it—Tariq had made that clear in his report. But they both knew that Lucius Dragos knew how to keep his own counsel. If he didn’t want a thing revealed, then it would not be revealed.

  But whether Dragos admitted it or not, Tariq’s theory made sense. Serge had disappeared from the crime scene after the girl had changed him, as had Montegue and Dragos. The vampires had testified that they’d subdued the monster in a warehouse, that there had been a horrific fight, that the building had burned, and that Sergius had been caught in the conflagration.

  The evidence had supported the story, and after the Division 6 medical examiner tested remains from the scene and pronounced that the DNA in fact belonged to Sergius, the search for the monster had been suspended.

  Dirque snorted, wishing he could be more disgusted with Division for its shortsightedness and lack of imagination. But he’d been just as guilty. Even knowing the prophecy, he still let his guard down. Allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security simply because of the identification of partial remains and the lack of a bloody path ripped across the city.

  But there would be no bloody path if Montegue and Dragos had managed to subdue and confine the creature.

  Where? That was the question. Where the hell was the monster? And what was it like now?

  No monster created by the Touch had ever lived so long. Undoubtedly the beast’s strength had increased, but had it developed reasoning ability? Was it still wild and uncontrolled? Or had it learned the art of stealth, such that it no longer cut a bloody swath through the land? If so, the monster had become even more terrifying than before.

  He was tempted to call Tariq back and have him lead the search for the beast, but he tempered the impulse. His nephew’s focus was on tracking the girl, and with regard to Petra Lang, nothing had changed. A living Sergius might be a threat to the Alliance, but at the moment all the evidence suggested that he was locked up tight. And while Montegue and Dragos might be searching for a cure, Dirque already had one—kill the girl, and Sergius would be free.