Nightbred: Lords of the Darkyn

by Viehl, Lynn

  “Tell me what you know,” Jayr said at once.

  Chris quickly related what Turner had said before she added, “I’m almost to the armory now.”

  “You should have Lucan attend to this, Christian,” Jayr scolded. “Whether bound by oath or visiting, all warriors within the stronghold answer to the suzerain.”

  “If they were actually trying to kill each other, I would,” she assured her. “But Turner called me, and as a tresora I’m supposed to try to handle it myself first. Okay, I’m here. Let me take a peek at what’s happening.” She tiptoed up to the open door of the armory and darted a glance around the edge.

  “Tell me what you see,” the suzeraina urged.

  Chris swung back, pressing her shoulder blades to the wall. Now she had to whisper. “Ten guys, five on each side. There’s a torn piece of paper on the floor between them, and everyone’s holding copper swords pointed at each other. No blood, and no one’s dead.”

  “Yet. The master of the armory, where is he?”

  “I don’t know, I didn’t see him.” Which could mean anything; he might be staying out of sight, or he could already be dead. Chris felt the seep of her worry widen into a stream of panic. “Maybe I should get the guards.”

  “Jardin sentries are under orders to eliminate all threats,” Jayr reminded her. “They will kill your visitors first and ask questions second.”

  “Okay, no guards.” She couldn’t let the men fight, but they wouldn’t be intimidated by a mere mortal female. It took a lot more to scare the Kyn. “Damn. I wish you were the high lord, Suzeraina.”

  A startled laugh came over the line. “For that, you would have to cut out my heart, force me to drink the blood of small felines for fifty years, and cause me to sprout a furry manhood.”

  “Thanks for that visual, my lady.” The shouts grew louder, and she knew she needed to go in and shut down this rumble now. “How can I stop this without anyone getting hurt?”

  “Given that this ridiculous summons Richard sent out is involved, I think it may be beyond your capabilities, Christian.” Jayr sighed. “Call for your lord. Lucan would never expect you to manage this by yourself.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.” And that gave her an idea. “I’m going to try something first.”

  Chris quickly buttoned her blouse up to her collar before fastening her jacket and smoothing every tendril of hair back from her face. She needed to channel her old DCF caseworker, Miss Audrey, a pleasant-faced grandmother who’d had the disposition of a bipolar rattlesnake. Clenching her back teeth together and pursing her lips, she strode into the armory.

  “Mr. Turner,” she called out, ignoring the men as she stalked between them. “Where are you?” Keeping her back to them, she took the ammunition invoice out of her jacket and slapped it down on the desk that served as Turner’s counter. “Lord Alenfar has a serious problem with this order. Come out here, please.”

  “You’re trying to get yourself gutted?” Jayr demanded over the earpiece.

  “The order will have to wait, lass.” The weapons master emerged from behind the shelves he was using as cover. “Perhaps you could come back another time.”

  “This can’t wait that long, Mr. Turner,” she snapped. “The suzerain needs more copper rounds, immediately, and this vendor has put us on hold. Would you care to tell Lord Lucan that he can’t use his weapons because the ammunition is on back order?”

  “That’s good; our men aren’t used to demanding females,” Jayr said over the earpiece. “Show no fear or hesitation. Imagine them as squabbling little boys. Which in truth is all they are.”

  An ugly mutter made Chris turn her head and glare in that direction. “Excuse me, did you want something?”

  “Do not drop your eyes or twitch a muscle,” Jayr warned. “Whoever started this will challenge your authority now.”

  “From a mortal?” One of the strange Kyn, a bullnecked beast with spiked brassy hair, offered her a sneer. “What can you do, Pearl Girl?”

  “That sounds like the instigator,” Jayr said.

  One that thinks he’s a poet, too. Chris imagined biting into a lime, and let her expression match its sourness. “My name is Miss Lang, sir, and I do whatever Lord Alenfar wants. What is that?” Before anyone could answer, she walked between the men, scooped up the tattered paper, and scanned it. “This is an official summons from the high lord. What’s it doing on the floor?”

  One of the jardin warriors nodded at the visitors. “They tore it down before we could see it.”

  Another visitor said something ugly in another language.

  “He says we took it from them,” the jardin warrior translated for her, “before they were done with it. But they cannot understand the summons.” He nodded at the spike-haired visitor. “Only that one speaks English.”

  “Is that all?” Chris sighed and eyed the summons. “It says, ‘From Richard Tremayne by the Grace of God High Lord of the Darkyn, Chosen Ruler of the Realms, Territories, and Jardins, Defender of Truth and Eternity, to Our right trusty and well-beloved seigneurs, lords and lady paramount, and warriors sworn, Greetings.’” She lifted her head and regarded the visitor’s only English speaker. “You can tell them that would be the high lord’s way of saying ‘Hi, everyone.’”

  “I told them what it means,” the spike-haired warrior said.

  “Good—then you should have no problem translating the rest of this for your friends.” She skimmed the first page, reading out loud the important parts. “He writes, ‘The Scroll of Falkonera, stolen of late by our enemies, has been recovered by the guardian Helada.’ Sounds like the thieves fell victim to its death curse. Too bad for them. He mentions the ages, and how he commissioned the smith Cristophe Noir to forge the scroll, and so on and so forth.”

  “Go to the end and read, Miss Christian,” one of the jardin warriors urged. “The bit about the jewels.”

  “Jewels, jewels.” Chris skipped ahead to the final paragraph of the summons. “Here’s something. ‘We therefore are well pleased to offer, for the elimination of this grievous threat, recompense to any oath-bound warrior of the Darkyn who should carry out a search to locate and secure the three gems. To he who successfully concludes this mission and delivers unto Us all three emeralds, We shall immediately grant the title of suzerain and rule of the territory of Ireland, including all present rights, properties, weapons, guards, warriors, and servants apportioned to the Irish jardin.’” She barely controlled a wince. “‘Given at Ì Àrd this first day of November in the nine hundred forty-fifth year of Our reign—’”

  “Aye, all of Ireland for the jewels,” the spike-haired visitor crowed, interrupting her. “I’ve told that to my brothers as well. In but a handful of days it shall be ours.”

  “This is not your territory,” a jardin warrior said. “It is ours to search.”

  “Excuse me. Excuse me.” Chris had to raise her voice to be heard over the angry mutters from the rest of the men. “This territory belongs to Lord Alenfar, and he decides what happens here. All requests to search for anything will be made to him.” She turned to the visitors. “If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with the suzerain, as he prefers to manage any problems involving visiting Kyn. Although I will warn you, he takes a very hands-on approach.” She described Lucan’s ability to shatter bones and rend flesh with a single touch before she said to the spike-haired warrior, “Make sure your friends understand exactly what I just said.”

  As the spike-haired warrior sullenly translated her words, the visiting Kyn lowered their weapons, and after a moment the jardin warriors did the same.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, I have to take care of the master’s business with Mr. Turner.” She nodded at their swords. “Lord Alenfar doesn’t allow sparring in the tunnels, and besides that, stronghold visitors are required to disarm upon arrival. You may leave your weapons here; Mr. Turner will take very good care of them.” When none of them moved, she took out her mobile from her pocket and held a thumb over
the keys. “I can call the suzerain and have him come down here to explain his policy to you. Personally.”

  The spike-haired warrior translated one final time, and the visitors grudgingly moved one by one to place their blades on the counter.

  Chris almost said “thank you” before she swiveled around to face Turner and tap the invoice with an impatient finger. “Now, about this ammunition back order. I checked the terms of the bid, and according to paragraph seven on page fourteen, if the supplier can’t deliver on schedule, a penalty charge of …”

  As she complained about the problem she had already solved upstairs, Chris kept her back toward the men and watched Turner’s dour expression. A moment before she became convinced that they’d seen through her act, she heard the sounds of heavy footsteps moving into the corridor.

  “Are they gone?” she whispered to Turner.

  “Aye.”

  Chris sagged against the counter. “Thank God.”

  Jayr chuckled over the earpiece. “Nicely done.”

  One of the jardin warriors went over and slammed shut the door. “You’re a clever girl, Miss Christian.” He nodded toward her jacket. “Your pocket is chiming.”

  “Damn.” Chris took out her locator, which displayed an electronic dimensional map of the stronghold. A blue light flashed in the reception room on the third floor. “Mr. Burke must be back from the airport.” To Jayr, she said, “I have to go, my lady. I really appreciate the help.”

  “Tell Lucan about this skirmish and the summons,” Jayr said, and then added, “When he’s in a gentle mood.”

  “I will, my lady, and thank you again.” She switched off the mobile and removed her earpiece, and saw that the jardin warriors had also left. “Mr. Turner, you might want to talk to Aldan about scheduling our guys with the new guys for some quality time in the warriors’ circle. And while you’re at it, arrange for some interpreters for them.”

  He nodded. “I believe I’ll close the armory for the rest of the night as well. Lass,” he said when she turned to leave, “what you did charging in here was very brave, but very foolish. None but that no-necked blowhard could understand you. One jab or swipe of the blade, and they would have done you in.”

  “You’re right, I’m human, and blades are not our friends.” She bent to pick up one of the swords, and carefully placed it on the counter. Only then did she give him a wink. “But it worked.”

  Chris hurried back to the elevator, apologizing to Aldan when he tried to stop her. “I’m needed in reception, guys, TTYL.”

  As she pressed the button for the third floor, Chris heard Aldan ask, “Tee-tee-why … what?”

  “’Tis a modern spoken code,” Glenveagh drawled. “It means she will converse with you anon—”

  Once the doors closed, Chris used her mobile to text Sam about the new arrival in reception—Burke always personally notified Lucan—and then walked around in a circle as she shook her hands. For the most part she’d outgrown the really horrible panic attacks of her teenage years, but every now and then anxiety would start trying to creep back into her head, a silent rat that wanted only to gnaw at her confidence and composure until her brain turned to Swiss cheese.

  Once she’d made enough money, Chris had gone to a therapist and paid three hundred bucks to have herself tested. The shrink had wanted to know why, but she’d lied and said it was for her job. A week later she’d gone in to get the results.

  “You’re a little depressed,” the shrink had told her as she handed over the typed report. “Of course I can work with you on that.”

  “Of course.” As long as she forked over more hundreds, which she didn’t have, so that was a nonissue. “But I’m not psychotic, schizophrenic, bipolar, paranoid, or in any way a danger to myself or others.”

  The older woman smiled. “No, you’re not.”

  “That should make my boss happy.” Chris skimmed the first page. “What’s this part about anxiety?”

  “You’re a very confident, polished young woman … on the surface.” The shrink’s eyes dipped to the cross-shaped bulge under her T-shirt. “We all wear masks, Miss Lang, in order to project what we want the world to see about us. Most of the time it’s an idealized version of our true selves. In your case, however, I have gotten a very strong impression of a completely artificial persona. One you’ve been constructing and perfecting for some time now. And it’s not a mask; it’s a full-body costume. One I believe you wear to cover the fears that threaten your ability to function.”

  Chris got to her feet and held up the report. “Can I take this?”

  The shrink nodded. “You paid for it. Miss Lang—”

  “Not interested,” Chris told her before she walked out.

  She had gone to the library, however, and borrowed every book she could find on anxiety and how to deal with it. Which was why she now imagined herself as the center of a lotus flower, drifting delicately on a pool of still water. As she tried to float, she remembered the mantra of affirmations she was supposed to say out loud along with the visualization.

  “My thoughts are quiet; my mind is clear. I am in control of my emotions, my decisions, and my life. I am filled with confidence. I am blessed with friends. I am rich with hope. I am starting to sound like a bad Hallmark card. Or someone who has taken too many happy pills.” So much for the mantra. She really needed to get a new meditation book from the library on her next day off.

  Once the doors opened, she stepped out and walked toward the reception room, but stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw the teenage boy standing with Burke in the hall.

  The Kyn lord standing beside Burke, Chris absently corrected herself. Jamys Durand hadn’t been a teenager since the Dark Ages.

  She had written at least two hundred private posts on her LiveJournal with a thousand minute details about Jamys, so she noticed the changes first. His black hair, which she’d envied and adored, was no longer in that devastatingly edgy who-gives-a-shag; he’d let it grow out so long he now wore it tied back in a ponytail. Under the time-burnished brown leather of his jacket his shoulders and upper arms showcased some serious new muscle, as did the white tee he wore under it. As he handed a scroll to Burke, the front of his jacket opened a few inches more, flashing his now beautifully sculpted abs. His hands looked rougher, harder than she remembered, and he’d left off wearing the gorgeous old ring with his family’s crest in silver. Her gaze drifted down the long legs, which the fitted cut of his plain black trousers showed to be more powerful than lean now. No, now he looked like he could run a couple of New York City marathons before breakfast.

  She saved his face for last, not that she needed to ogle it. The young, handsome features were just as she had kept them in her memory: the black slashes of his eyebrows, the angular symmetry of his cheekbones and jaw, the imperial nose, the full, almost passionate mouth that rarely smiled but always made her think of kissing. When other mortals looked at Jamys, they saw a boy, because he had been a teenager when he’d made the transition from human to Darkyn, and like his body his face would be forever young. But Chris saw more; she saw the shadow of the man he would have been, lurking just beneath the surface. A big, dangerous, definitely scary man, exactly like his father.

  Chris saw his head start to turn toward her and darted around the corner out of sight. She covered her mouth with her hands, trying at the same time to take in some air, but her lungs were already full and waiting to exhale. She couldn’t remember how to breathe for a full five seconds.

  Why is he here? He can’t be here. I’m not ready.

  She’d expected time to plan and prepare, to buff and polish herself, to show him what he’d been missing for the last three years. She’d never be gorgeous or heart-stopping—Chris had accepted that long ago—but she’d grown past cute and quirky, and had been carefully cultivating an Audrey Hepburn–Winona Ryder look that made the most of what she had. She’d given up on Goth and gone for sleek and chic, and had an entire wardrobe of the right looks, all of which were
now sitting at home in her apartment.

  I can’t let him see me like this. I’ll bore him to death at first sight. The silver chain around her neck sawed against her skin, and she looked down to see she was clutching the cross through her blouse so tightly the edges bruised the insides of her fingers. Or he’ll think I’m crazy.

  Like an answer to her prayers, her mobile buzzed in her pocket. She rushed to the end of the hall and stepped inside the freight elevator, closing the doors before she answered it. “Christian Lang.”

  “Miss Christian? It’s Connie.” Burke’s receptionist sounded nervous. “I have a video call from Italy waiting on hold.”

  “Then you’re costing them a lot of money, Connie.” Chris frowned. “Are they calling for Lord Lucan?”

  “No, miss. It’s for you.”

  Chapter 3

  Penthouse Suite

  Alenfar Stronghold

  Fort Lauderdale, Florida

  “Why are you dressed and out of bed?”

  “I have to go to work.” Samantha Brown smiled as the scent of night-blooming jasmine crept into the bathroom where she stood brushing her hair. “And they don’t let me do my job in the nude.”

  Once the domain of corporate executives, the top two floors of the Alenfar Building had been renovated into luxurious penthouse accommodations. Wraparound panels, made of specially reinforced safety glass, provided stunning views of Fort Lauderdale, from the skyscrapers that soared into the skyline to the west to the wide ribbon of shell-speckled amber sand to the east that bordered the gilded jade edge waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

  Three years ago Sam had never imagined living in a high-rise penthouse. The salary she made as a homicide detective had barely covered her living expenses and the rent for a small apartment in a decent neighborhood. It didn’t bother her; she hadn’t joined the force to get rich.

  Sam was still a cop, although everything else had changed. Including her life, which thanks to her bioengineered DNA and a transfusion of vampire blood was now virtually immortal.