When Wicked Craves

by J. K. Beck

  “You suggest I run?” Trylag demanded, getting into Tiberius’s face. “You suggest I hide?”

  “I suggest that we do what we can to forestall this prophecy from coming to pass,” Tiberius said. “You are the governor of Australia and the Far Eastern territories, are you not? Go there, then, and lock yourself in someplace impenetrable until our agents can kill this monster.”

  Trylag sneered. “And yet you walk free. Do you think I cannot smell a trick? Do you think I believe that the enmity that has passed between us has simply been erased?”

  “You small-minded fool,” snarled Tiberius. “I speak not of petty disputes among the Alliance liaisons. We are concerned now with the sanctity of the Alliance as a whole.”

  Luke stepped forward. “Tiberius will be concealed somewhere that Sergius cannot find him.” That much was true. Rand and Lissa were preparing a hidden chamber in a warehouse recently acquired through a series of false names and companies. The concrete was thick, the locks were massive, and the security system state of the art. Even then, Luke intended to bring in Alliance guards to man the doors. He would take no chances guarding Tiberius. If the master vampire died, the deal to free Sara died with him.

  Trylag ran his hand over his chin. “Narid has gone already?”

  “He has.” The wraith liaison had needed no extra persuasion, a fact that had chilled Luke. Wraiths were notoriously difficult to destroy, and it was not brawn that did the trick. If the wraith liaison was indeed so scared, then there was much to fear from both the prophecy and Sergius.

  He thought of the bloodbath he’d witnessed inside Dirque’s home, not to mention the mangled bodies of the guards found along the perimeter. Yes. Much to fear.

  He shifted the tranquilizer gun on his shoulder, hoping that he wouldn’t have to use any of his weapons, hoping that Nick could turn Serge around before Luke was forced to defend Tiberius. He had no desire to kill his friend. To save Sara, though, he wouldn’t hesitate. Tiberius was under Luke’s protection now.

  Trylag’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Tiberius and Luke. “And you speak the truth? Tiberius will do the same? He will hide away like a scared rabbit?”

  “There is no shame here, Excellency,” Luke said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. “You have heard the prophecy. We are fighting the hand of fate with every trick in our arsenal.”

  “You have not answered the question, vampire.”

  “Yes,” Luke snapped. “Tiberius will be locked away as well. As I have already told you.”

  “He speaks the truth,” Tiberius said. “We leave here to go to my cell.”

  Trylag drew in a noisy breath. “Very well,” he said. “I will do as you say.” He inclined his head, his hands close to his body. He stood stiffly, his skin turning a burnished orange that seemed to collect at his fingertips.

  He was gathering power, Luke knew. Soon, the para-daemon would reach out, and with his hand, he would rend the very fabric of the universe. That was a para-daemon’s special gift—the creation of a wormhole, and through it, Trylag could travel to his territory in almost the blink of an eye.

  The door from the office to the Division 6 hallway opened, and Luke did a double take when he saw Nick walk in. A split second later he shoved Tiberius to the floor and had the tranq gun out and firing—because that wasn’t Nick. It was Serge, using the power of the jinn he’d taken from Dirque to throw a glamour—and using his own unique power to drain Tiberius, Luke, and Trylag.

  The tranq darts didn’t even slow Serge down, though, and he dove for Trylag and began to rip off the para-daemon’s limbs, all while the doomed creature howled in pain.

  Luke wanted to simply transform into mist and get the hell out of there, but Serge had stolen that power. Luke had more strength than he’d had in the warehouse, though, and he had to assume that was because Serge was focused on Trylag, and the draining of power was only a prophylactic measure to protect himself as he attacked the para-daemon.

  He considered firing the actual bullets, but it was obvious there was no hope for the para-daemon. And if he fired, he’d just draw attention to himself and to Tiberius.

  With Sara filling his thoughts, he urged Tiberius out the door and then pulled it closed.

  “Go!” he yelled to Tiberius, who ran down the hall as Luke moved into the next office and shoved aside a lanky weren female so he could get to her phone. “Security,” he said, then ordered that they gas Trylag’s office, instituting a fail-safe protective measure that existed throughout Division.

  The female had watched him with wide eyes, and then pulled up the video feed for Trylag’s office, and they watched as the smoky gas poured in … and did absolutely nothing to Serge.

  Trylag’s body lay on the ground, limbless and bleeding. And Serge stood over him, his head cocked, almost as if he was listening to someone calling his name.

  Then he tilted his face up, and looked straight into the camera. Luke sucked in air, seeing the depth of dark purpose in the eyes of his friend.

  And then Serge reached into the air just as Trylag had done earlier. He whipped his arm in a circle, swirling the air, and soon a hole opened, dark and black.

  With one final glance upward toward the camera, Serge stepped inside—and was gone.

  Petra curled up in one of the plane’s seats, looking out the window at the darkening city disappearing behind them, fighting a trembling that had started deep in her muscles. She wanted to sleep. To forget that Serge was on the loose. That he was some freakish creature who could steal a shadower’s power. That she had anything to do with creating this monster that was going to set loose a river of blood.

  She wanted to ignore the horrible sensations that filled her head—dark and bitter and full of blood. Had he killed? She knew he must have—that was what the monster did—but she felt only the black pit of evil swirling somewhere deep inside of her. Serge, and, dear God, she didn’t want to feel it. Didn’t want to shoulder the burden of experiencing the evil of what she had made.

  And she sure as hell didn’t want to do it alone.

  But she had no choice. The earth had turned, and she was alone again.

  Nicholas.

  She wasn’t a fool. She knew the way the world worked. Hell, she knew the way he worked. He might have said sweet things to her and whispered that they’d be together, but that wasn’t something she could hold him to. He was Nicholas Montegue. He wasn’t the kind of man who fell for one woman. Especially a woman he could have in his bed for only one night every few years.

  So better that she put the walls back up now before the hurt barreled down on her. Because, yeah, she could see the hurt coming. She hated it—oh God, she hated it—but it was absolutely inevitable.

  The curtain between the cockpit and the cabin opened and he stepped out, a triumphant grin on his face. “We are safe at cruising altitude, and my friend Mr. Autopilot has the controls. Our cruising time is estimated at ten hours, and we’ll reach Paris before the sun rises in the City of Lights.”

  She wanted to smile at the playfulness in his voice, but couldn’t.

  He frowned and took a step toward her. “And a good thing, too,” he said. “You look like you could use the sleep. Are you okay?”

  She wanted to tell him she wasn’t. Wanted him to sit near her and caress her with words and let her take some of his strength. But that would be a mistake. She’d already gotten closer to him than she should have. Yes, she’d had the blue moon she’d always dreamed about—too bad she’d never bothered to dream about what would happen after.

  “What’s that saying?” she asked, tilting her head up to look at him.

  “What saying?”

  “Be careful what you wish for …”

  She saw the concern flare in his eyes and gripped the seat next to him as he focused all his attention on her. “Petra, what’s wrong?”

  “I’d like to be alone now.”

  “I could sit. We could talk.”

  “No.” She need
ed to be strong. She’d felt her self-reliance slipping away last night. She needed to grab it back. She already had one man who was prisoner to her, and couldn’t bear to have another. Especially not Nicholas, who wasn’t a man who would enjoy being trapped by a woman. He was too full of life and joy.

  And life with her would be anything but.

  She thought about Ferrante. About this mystery alchemist who Nicholas believed could find a cure for Serge. She wished she could put her faith in that hope, too, but she knew more than Nicholas did. There was a cure already, and Ferrante would probably tell Nicholas what Petra already knew. That lifting the curse from Serge was the easiest thing in the world. Petra simply had to die.

  No. Once they reached Paris, she’d find a time to slip away. Kiril had to be searching for her. She’d find him. They’d be on the run, but—

  “Petra?”

  She closed her eyes, gathering strength, wishing the path that lay before her included Nicholas, but knowing it couldn’t. “I told you I want to be alone.”

  She saw a muscle twitch in his jaw, and had to fight the urge to take it all back. To beg him to put his hand beside hers and tell her that somehow, together, they’d find a way through this. She didn’t, though, and after a moment he nodded slowly.

  “As you wish.”

  She forced herself not to flinch as he turned and walked away, returning to the cabin and the pilot’s seat.

  Once again, she was alone. Considering she’d been doing her damnedest to push him away, she was surprised by how much that hurt.

  He’d touched her. Dear God, he’d touched her as no one else had. He’d opened her up to pleasure and wonder. He’d made her laugh and feel things she’d never thought she could feel.

  Things she wouldn’t feel again for a long, long time.

  Frustrated, she looked toward the front of the plane and the curtain behind which Nicholas sat. She stood up and took a step in that direction, but she couldn’t go all the way, and she ended up merely crossing the aisle.

  Behind her, the emergency exit door dominated the hull, and she cast it one suspicious glance before clicking the ends of the seat belt firmly together. She sat, letting the sadness wash over her. Feeling the vibrations of the plane fill her. Then she closed her eyes and willed herself not to cry despite the stabbing, horrible knowledge that no matter what, she wasn’t going to feel his touch again.

  CHAPTER 25

  Nick sat in the pilot’s seat, something dark and unfamiliar twisting through him. He tried to analyze it and knew that it wasn’t anger he felt. Hell, it wasn’t even frustration.

  No, it was the unfamiliar ache of loss.

  She’d pushed him away and, goddammit, her diffidence had bruised him.

  The question was why, and he saw the answer clearly: She’d pulled back. She’d usurped Nick’s role. Wasn’t that his standard approach to a night with a beautiful woman? Thank you very much, but I must be going now? She’d thrust his own goddamned MO back on him, and that was eating at him. Not the loss, not the woman herself.

  Simply the way she did it.

  That was all. Simple. Obvious.

  Although, yes, if he was honest he had to admit that there was a measure of irritation arising from the fact that he would, remarkably, have altered his own rules for Petra. Not that his habit of avoiding continued relationships actually constituted a rule. More like the practical ramification of not finding a woman in his bed who intrigued his mind as much as his body. And without that connection, what was the point of bedding her a second time?

  With Petra, he would have gone back, though he supposed her diffidence was just as well. Her bed was not one he could return to. She was like Medusa now, her touch rather than her eyes capable of altering him forever.

  She’d pushed him away almost cruelly, though she wasn’t a woman he could ever believe would be cruel.

  A sudden shock of understanding washed over him, and he sat in the pilot’s seat feeling like a goddamned idiot. His fucking male ego had been so bruised by her coldness that he hadn’t thought to consider where it came from, much less whether or not it was real. And frankly, he didn’t believe that it was.

  He closed his eyes, reaching out for her, searching for her in the blood they shared. She wouldn’t want him to—but he had to know how she felt, what she was thinking.

  She was thinking about him.

  Her body was warm and soft and wanting.

  He couldn’t read her thoughts—the connection didn’t work that way—but he was certain he understood the emotions. Desire warring with fear. Fear of what she was. Fear that he would leave.

  By the gods, she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

  He stood, intending to go to her, but stopped when the cockpit radio beeped, signaling an incoming transmission. He frowned; only a few people knew that Serge had a plane, much less the private frequency. And no one knew that he and Petra were on this plane.

  He considered ignoring the transmission, especially in light of his overwhelming desire to go to Petra, but curiosity and instinct for self-preservation changed his mind. If someone knew they were in Serge’s jet, Nick wanted to know who.

  He slipped on the headset and pushed the button to talk. “Go ahead.”

  “Dirque and Trylag are dead,” Luke said. “I have Tiberius under guard, but the rest of the Alliance members are targets.”

  “They’ve been warned?” Nick asked.

  “They have. Whether or not they’ve gone into hiding, I don’t know.”

  “Shit.”

  For a moment Luke was silent, and Nick feared that the connection had dropped. Then his friend spoke. “Tariq is on his way to Paris, as is the brother. Be wary.”

  “I will,” Nick said, though something in Luke’s voice suggested that was not the real reason for the call.

  “It is worse than we thought,” Luke said. “This prophecy I told you about—apparently it’s coming to pass. Serge is channeling the power of the third. He killed Dirque’s guards, so he’s not discriminating, but his primary target does seem to be the Alliance.”

  “The third? The third brother?” He took very little satisfaction from the fact that his theory had been right. “Your message said he drained you and Rand of your power?”

  “That’s so, although the damage wasn’t permanent.”

  “It fits,” Nick said. “If the third seeks revenge, what better way to obtain it than to fill himself with the power that was stolen by the other two brothers.”

  “Is the girl with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then you can end this now.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “She is the cure, Nick.”

  Nick tensed, hearing the cool detachment in Luke’s words. “What do you mean?”

  “Kill her, and Serge will be himself again. The Alliance members have seen it work that way. And Tiberius himself has ordered it.”

  Nick said nothing, the shock of what Luke said curling around and through him.

  “Nicholas? Do you understand?”

  Nick swallowed, aware of the way the air seemed to suddenly hang heavy around him. “And if I cannot?”

  “You’ve killed before in service of the Alliance,” Luke said.

  Nick said nothing.

  “I like Petra, too,” Luke said, all formality dropping from his tone. “But if Serge is the hand that will destroy the Alliance, and her death can free him—”

  “And if it were Sara?”

  There was silence on the other end. And then, “Is that the way of it?”

  “It is.”

  “The killing cannot continue,” Luke said, and Nick heard the danger in the words. If Nick didn’t kill Petra, someone else surely would.

  “Ferrante may still yield answers,” Nick said, knowing full well that would not stall the Alliance. Before, they wanted her dead to prevent a monster. Now that the monster was out and killing, they would put all their resources toward finding and stoppin
g her.

  “Or he may not,” Luke countered. “And how many will die while you avoid certainty to chase a possibility?”

  “Does that mean that you intend to tell the Alliance where we’re going?”

  There was a pause, then, “No. What was said in friendship remains between us. But Nick, they know you’re going to Paris. They may well make the connection without me. Think well about what you need to do.”

  Nick clenched his fists, duty to Tiberius, to the entire shadow world warring with—with what? With desire?

  No, it was more than that.

  With love.

  He closed his eyes and imagined the rage of Sergius. He knew what the monster could do. And he knew where this could end.

  “Does she know?” Nick asked. “Does Petra know that her death will end this?” He felt a quick burst of anger at the possibility. But while part of him wanted to lash out at her for hiding from him the very cure that he’d sought when they first started this journey, the practical part knew damn well why she had.

  And, he realized, he was glad of it.

  Then, he could have taken her life to save Serge.

  Now, he knew that he wouldn’t. More, he knew that he couldn’t.

  He didn’t wait for Luke’s response. “I will do what I must do,” he said, and then he ended the transmission. What he didn’t say was that what he must do was exactly what he’d been doing all along. He’d find a cure for Serge. He’d find a way to lift Petra’s curse.

  He loved her, and, dear God, he would not sacrifice her.

  He stood, intending to go to her, and only then remembered why he’d returned to the cockpit in the first place. Because Petra herself had pushed him away.