by Michele Hauf
The lie didn’t make her feel as awful as she expected it should, and yet Rook’s tense jaw clued he might suspect her deception. The vampire had performed a heroic act not an hour earlier. He deserved a little slack. And she intended to stand good on her word, regardless of how crazy making a bargain—twice—with a vampire had been.
“I intend to go out after I’ve had some rest,” she said. “If he’s so allergic to daylight, he’ll be holed up somewhere soon enough. Might give me a chance to stake him when he’s down. Did you find any known addresses for him?”
“Research turned up some interesting stuff, but no address after five years ago. He disappeared off the face of the earth after he became vampire.”
That was interesting. He’d not been vampire even a decade? And had he alluded to being made a vampire against his will when they’d spoken on the roof? “What does the research show?”
“You’ve never asked for details before. Why this time? Why is this particular vampire eluding our best hunter with an ease that is embarrassing?”
“I’m not embarrassed. He’s giving me a good chase. For once. Most vampires are too easy. Spot ’em and smoke ’em. I rarely break a sweat.”
Rook smirked. “I’ll give you that. But I am embarrassed for myself, the Order and you. I trained you, Lark. You’re better than this.”
Yes, she was. You never should have looked into his eyes.
“Before he became vampire,” Rook continued, “Domingos LaRoque was a musician.”
A musician was giving her a good chase. Okay, now she was a little embarrassed. “What did he play?”
“Is that important?”
She shrugged. “No.” But she was a musician, and the tidbit intrigued.
“Cello,” Rook offered with disinterest. “He was a much-sought-after guest with symphonies and had worked on some sound tracks but never achieved a fame that would have made him a household name. Seems he preferred anonymity when working with others.”
“Music. Interesting.”
Lark thought of her violin she’d had to leave behind, and how she desperately wanted to pick it up to play. It was her one escape from reality and a sure balm to her aching soul. She hoped if the wolves had returned to her apartment they hadn’t smashed it. That would prove plain vindictive. “I just got a call from Principal Caufield a minute before you arrived here.”
Why was everyone up and about in the middle of the night?
“And?” She knew what he’d say and tucked her head against her chest to avoid eye contact.
“LaRoque has killed another pack member.”
Yes, but she felt sure the pack leader had neglected to mention that wolf had been standing guard before a smoking building filled with vampires.
“I don’t need to tell you how angry Principal Caufield is. He thought he’d hired a professional.” Rook leaned over her. His breath reeked of coffee. She could feel the tension in his fingers, gripping her knee. “Did he hire a professional? Or did he hire a little girl who likes it when her prey leads her on a good chase?”
Calling her “little girl” was how he’d taunted her throughout training. The little girl hadn’t strength to stand up to a vicious vampire. Little girls don’t like to get their hair mussed. Little girls should go play with their dolls and makeup and leave slaying to the men. Little girls cry over dead husbands.
That had been the last teardrop she’d allowed any man to witness.
“I’ll get the job done.” Lark straightened and lifted her chin.
“Good. I know you are a woman of your word. Your apartment has been cleaned and restored. It’s warded against werewolves, vampires and witches.”
“Witches?”
“Thought I’d throw that in as a bonus. Though I personally have nothing against witches, they can be terrible to deal with. So you can return. Which is fortunate. I need this place for a visiting dignitary.”
“Give me five minutes to gather my things and I’ll be gone.”
“I’ll give you one more day, Lark, before I pull you off this job and replace you with Gunnar.”
He walked out, leaving the door open.
Lark swung a fist after him. The one man she wanted to punch in the nose was the only man she had to respect. But she had to put up with him only until her revenge was complete. Then she was hanging up her stake and leaving the country to start a new life.
Chapter 8
Hood pulled over his head and goggles in place, Domingos squatted behind a chimney on the shady side of Lark’s rooftop. The rain kept the sky gray, but it was morning and he was prepared should the sun suddenly peek out. Not ten feet away from where he stood, the roof door was open a crack.
The risks of exposure outweighed ignoring the call to be close to Lark. Yet he couldn’t seem to keep away from the sultry hunter whose mouth tasted like a treat he’d never before imagined tasting and whose skin smelled like a brightness he could never again view. Such dalliance with the enemy wasn’t proving a problem. He’d managed to slay the wolf last night, and gotten a few vampires to safety to boot. He was on top of his game.
Heh.
The game was swallowing him whole. But he wouldn’t allow himself to become a pawn. Instead he’d control the board and go down screaming at the voices in his head. It was the only way to win.
Here on the roof he felt some solace. The strangled music in his head was eerily absent, which he associated with being near Lark. Had to be. His thoughts hadn’t been so noise-free in months. And if she truly was the reason for it, he was damn well not going to stray too far from her.
She’d moved back into her apartment hours earlier, and Domingos could sense the wards against him. So long as there were also wards against the werewolves, he didn’t mind so much. It was the smart move to make, and she was no idiot. Unless he counted fraternizing with him, which really blew her off the scale of Not Smart.
He could pick up her heartbeat below as she moved from where he knew her bedroom was and into the living room. He wondered what she was wearing. The night he’d grabbed her from her bedroom to keep her from the wolves, she’d worn nothing but pants and a bra. The hunter was hot. Sexy. Agile and deadly, yet sensual and soft like one of those fantasy paintings that depicted a warrior woman with an impossible weapon.
He wanted to have sex with her, to bring his skin tight against hers and feed off her warmth, her sleek, toned curves and wanting moans. Because he knew she would moan in his arms, gifting him sweet murmurs of pleasure to feed his desires.
But more so, he wanted to taste her blood beyond the droplet he’d tasted during their rooftop kiss. Would it be as sweet? Dark and thick? Perhaps fresh and bold like a young wine? Blood tasted vastly different from person to person, depending on diet and lifestyle. Domingos imagined Lark’s blood would be not too thick and not too thin, sweet, but perhaps laced with a bittersweet edge like fine chocolate.
Both urges—sex and blood—were stupid. He was sane enough to reason that out.
And then he didn’t care. And the whispers inside him segued to an abrupt chuckle.
It was never stupid to want a connection with another being. To finally know that which he desperately craved. Because since becoming vampire he’d been missing the implicit connection between two people. More than skin on skin, or blood to tongue. It must go deeper, permeating skin, muscle and bone, to the very soul.
Yet his broken soul wasn’t worthy, he knew that much. So he must be satisfied with seeking to appease the lesser urges of touch, sex and blood. Fortunately for the hunter, he’d fed on a vagrant sorting through a garbage bin before coming here. He required blood daily since his escape from the blood games. Just one more thing that cursed him a crazed monster.
Pressing a palm flat onto a roof tile, Domingos closed his eyes and wished he could project his desire to t
he beautiful, smart woman below. If only he had some means to express what he wanted beyond grabbing her and awkwardly kissing her. She couldn’t like that, especially when he must be so careful with his fangs.
Though last night up on the roof she’d pulled him to her body. For a few moments they had both taken what they’d needed from each other. Lark had wanted the crush of his mouth against hers, his skin brushing her skin and a hard body limning her curves. It must have killed her to take those wants from a vampire.
“I wonder if she wants soul-deep love. To simply...” Be loved.
He’d never known love. Not between two people. Sure, when mortal, he had dated women and had gone steady with one for over a year. But to experience a love so deep and abiding it burrowed to his very soul? Not yet.
He had once loved music so deeply it had been his voice; he had defined it as the voice of his soul. Music had not been stripped from him by vampirism as had his humanity. He’d willingly given it up after transforming to vampire. Music was too perfect to be touched by a monster such as he. Which was why he now only frequented the loud, raucous nightclubs. Couldn’t allow himself to enjoy a symphony or even a quiet melodic love song. Though Mozart’s A Little Night Music did have a tendency to interpose over the murderous cats on a few blessed occasions.
A musical note played a wavering vibrato between his ears. It drew out so long, he clenched his teeth and his fangs threatened to pierce his lower lip. Banging a fist aside his head didn’t knock out the torment as it usually did. So he leaned forward and pounded his forehead against the roof—just once.
Pausing, Domingos spread his fingers over the cool tiles and listened. The music was not coming from inside his head, but rather outside it. Pushing up, he scanned beneath him. Had Lark turned on the stereo or television? It wasn’t so awful; in fact, the notes were beautifully clear. A violin testing the beginning bars of a solo originally composed—
“For cello,” he said angrily.
Domingos launched himself over the side of the roof and landed on the narrow ledge of the back door with ease. His toes hung over the wobbly threshold that had loosened when the iron stairs had fallen, but pressing his back to the door, he balanced. The door had been repaired, as he assumed her apartment had been fixed up.
Music echoed through the wood door and into his body, spiraling up his spine and into his skull. Preparing for the torture—it did not come. The tune was melodic, in perfect 4/4 time and not the clatter of disharmonic cat screams that normally tormented him.
And that angered him to the very blood of the phoenix he’d stolen to survive.
Domingos pounded on the door, feeling an electric shock zap through his veins and spark throughout his system, pinching every nerve as if in a vise. Youch! That was not from the music.
“Stop it!” he yelled, beating relentlessly, even though contact with the door continued to shock him.
The door swung open and Lark, hair unbound and falling lushly over her shoulders, holding a pale, unvarnished wood violin and bow, glared out at him. “What the hell are you doing?”
“What are you doing? No music! It’s not yours.”
She clasped the violin to her chest and protested, “It doesn’t hurt me.”
“It’s not yours!”
“Go away if it bothers you so much, you annoying vampire.”
“No. I want to be near you.”
Lark exhaled and made a show of glancing at the digital clock near her bed. “Not many hours left on our deal.”
Domingos held his position by pressing both palms flat against the door frame. The ward electrified that touch, but he wincingly maintained contact. “I’m not leaving.”
“Are you going to stop shouting? I can’t risk the neighborhood hearing your crazy tirade.”
“If you stop playing, I’ll stop shouting.”
“I will not—” Heaving out a surrendering sigh, she gestured with her bow hand. “Hell, I know by now that you’re never going to leave. Come inside. And don’t make me regret my kindness.”
Released from the shocking repulse that zapped through his system, Domingos was thrust inside and across the threshold. Moving swiftly, he grabbed the offensive instrument from Lark’s hand and lifted it over his head.
“No!” She lunged to claim the precious violin, so he held it high out of her reach. “That’s mine! You can’t break it. How dare you?”
“It hurts me,” he seethed. He swung the instrument before him, defying her to grab for it.
“No, please, Domingos.” Putting up her palms placatingly, she softened her tone. “It was my father’s. It is precious to me!”
Her shout defeated the raging chorus of insane instruments orchestrating in his brain that insisted on being heard over the gorgeous melody that had invoked his anger. Lulled by her pleading dark eyes, Domingos stopped, violin clutched to his chest, his breaths heaving with anxiety.
At the sight of Lark’s desperate expression, he closed his eyes. Didn’t she understand? Music was sacred to him. He’d banished it from his life to protect it. To hear it now only reminded him of what he’d once been, and could never again have.
“But it hurts me,” he said quietly. “The music. I’ve told you.”
“I promise I won’t play it again. Not when I know you’re around.” She reached for the violin but moved cautiously, unwilling to push him into another tirade. “I didn’t know you were near.”
“Needed to be close to you. Makes me feel safe,” he said. The maniacal chuckle escaped, but he cut it off abruptly. “Until you started to play. It’s too sweet. Stirs up the dark anger in me. Makes me remember what I was like as a mortal man. No more. I’ll never be that man again.”
“No playing, then. Promise.” Her smile didn’t look forced, only worried. “You know you can trust my word, Domingos. Yes?”
Twice now she’d stood good on her word. A hunter who had granted her prey life only because she wished to. Truly, this woman was too good and was not maneuvering him into a ploy to let down his guard to allow her to attack.
He nodded and turned his head down and away from her. The sane part of him chastised the madman for scaring her with such a cruel threat. He knew the value of a musician’s instrument—it went beyond currency.
Thrusting out his arm, he offered the violin.
Lark claimed it, carefully setting it in the leather case that sat open on the bed. Her fingers danced respectfully over the wood body, tracing a faint scar as if remembering its origin.
“It’s over two hundred years old,” she said. “My grandfather’s. He handed it down to his son, who then gave it to me. It sounds like a Stradivarius, at least to me. If any damage came to it, it would feel as though I’d been cut in my soul.”
He understood that, and felt her words tap against his soul, yet Domingos couldn’t determine if the tap wanted to wound or heal. This madness fogged his heart beyond recognition. How to know if these feelings were real or just a facade designed to further torment his tattered soul?
“It looks fine,” her soft voice said calmly. “You didn’t harm it.”
“I’m glad for that.”
Lark turned and sat on the bed beside the violin case, drawing her palm up and down her opposite arm as if she were cold. “I wish I could understand your need to constantly be near me. It’s not healthy. And I know you’re not all there in the head, but— Sorry. That was cruel to say. Why are you here? Why me?”
Domingos, head bowed in shame, clasped his hands to his chest. Without a second thought, he spoke a new yet deep and desperate desire. “I want to bite you.”
A startled gasp fell from her perfect red lips. So beautiful with her loose hair and barely there makeup. Natural, unbound, like pages of musical notation strewn across the floor in wait of discovery.
Recovering her obvious shock w
ith a regal tilt of head, Lark said, “So what’s stopping you?”
“We had a deal.”
“Right. No biting. No staking. For another four or five hours. I should have added a clause about keeping your distance, as well.”
“Just makes it easier when you need to find me, yes?”
“There is that. You seriously need to get a hobby if all your spare time is spent following me.”
“I have one.”
“Right. Leaving slain werewolves in your wake. And...ripping out their hearts.”
Exactly. And let no hunter judge him unless she could prove to walk on higher ground. Yet how did she know he ripped out their hearts? Caufield must have reported that detail to the Order.
“Lark, I need to— I wanted to...” Heaving out a wilting sigh, Domingos said quietly, “Forget the bite. Will you...let me hold you?”
Now he cast his gaze upon her and attempted to radiate his need from within the tattered and torn muscles that pulsed about his heart. He sensed she felt the same need. Please, let her be receptive to me.
“Promise I won’t bite,” he rushed out. “I just want to smell your brightness. To listen to the blood rush through your veins.”
She stifled a wince. Not exactly turn-the-girl-on date chatter. Hell, the last time he’d been on a wine-and-roses date he’d been mortal.
Idiot. Domingos turned away and clasped his arms across his chest, giving himself what she would not.
“If you think chumming up to me will change my mind—”
“I’m not doing that. I just wanted...” He caught his head in his palms. “I just...wanted.”
* * *
He just wanted.
Never had a man been so open with her, so blatantly bare and truthful. Not even—no, not even her dead husband. No games with this one. He hadn’t time for silly mind games. She respected him for that.
They were similar, which was difficult to admit. As Lark drew in a breath her body shivered with undeniable need. You want, too. You’ve denied that want for over a year. Too many other things to deal with. When would she let it come to her?