by Lara Adrian
Jordana shrugged. “Honestly, I find it too perfect. His art is too … I don’t know. Too controlled, I suppose.” She gestured to a neighboring marble piece, one of the collection’s most important acquisitions. “Take this Bernini bust, on the other hand. Look at the energy of his work. It’s unsettling, unrefined. Aggressive.”
The sculpture they looked at was Anima Dannata, depicting a condemned soul staring into the abyss of hell. Jordana drew closer to the display. “Bernini shows you every crag in his subject’s face, every livid vein and hair standing on end. You can actually see the torment in the man’s face—you can feel it. You can almost hear the scream of horror from the man’s open mouth. Bernini shows you everything. He dares you to experience it.”
The stranger nodded. “You take your art very seriously.”
“I love it,” Jordana admitted. “It means everything to me.”
Something flickered in his unusual green eyes. “We share that in common, then. I am a lover of art myself. And today, a newfound appreciation for Bernini. Your favorite piece, I take it?”
“Oh,” Jordana said, shaking her head. “No, there’s another sculpture that I like even more. But it’s not as important as either of these.”
“Will you show me?”
For a moment, Jordana forgot all about the fact that the exhibit was currently off-limits to anyone but museum staff. She led him to another of the pieces housed inside a Plexiglas display.
“Cornacchini’s Sleeping Endymion,” he said, a smile on his lips. Jordana noticed he hadn’t needed to read the placard. “You know this one too?”
“It’s been in the museum’s collection for many years, I believe.”
“Yes, it has.” He must be a longtime patron of the museum, to be so familiar not only with art in general but with this particular piece as well. “Endymion came to us by anonymous donation a couple decades ago. It was in another exhibit most of that time, but when I began planning this collection, I had to have it.” She gazed at the reclining human shepherd, sleeping under Selene’s crescent moon. “There’s not another piece in the entire museum that I love more than this one.”
A cryptic smile played at the corners of the stranger’s mouth. “I can’t imagine it being in better hands.”
Jordana considered the odd compliment, her curiosity about the man deepening the longer she spoke with him. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old, she guessed, but he had a wisdom about him—an indefinable aura that made him seem far older than his age.
He wasn’t Breed; he had no dermaglyphs that she could see, nor would he be walking around during daylight hours without being wrapped in yards of UV-protective gear, if he was one of Nathan’s kind.
And yet her senses seemed to resist the notion to call him human.
Flummoxed, she extended her hand to him. “I’m Jordana Gates, by the way. The exhibit curator.”
He hesitated momentarily before taking her hand in a warm, firm grasp. “Yes, I know who you are.” At her uneasy look, he indicated the ID badge hanging from the lanyard looped around her neck.
“Oh.” Jordana laughed nervously. “I’m sorry, but … who are you?”
At first, she didn’t think he would answer. Then, carefully, he said, “Cassian.” No more, no less.
Did she know that name from somewhere?
She couldn’t be sure, but Jordana knew she’d never seen this man before.
Jordana withdrew her hand from his. “Well, Mr. Cassian, I really have enjoyed talking with you. But it’s getting late and no one is supposed to be in the exhibit before it officially opens tomorrow, so …”
“Of course,” he replied politely, even dipping his head slightly in an almost courtly bow. “And I assure you, Jordana, the pleasure has been all mine.”
She took in his shoddy attire again and felt a pang of regret for the way she’d discounted him on sight. And she couldn’t just push him out the door, especially not knowing how much he enjoyed the exhibit. “Wait here a moment. I’ll be right back.”
She didn’t pause for his answer. Impulsively, she pivoted away and hurried back into her office. Riffling through her desk, she grabbed a pair of complimentary tickets to tomorrow’s grand opening event and full-day admission to the museum.
“I just remembered I had a couple of leftover passes in my office,” she said as she returned to the exhibit room. “I’d love for you to have—”
He was gone.
“Mr. Cassian?” Jordana scanned the area, then made a quick search of the nearby exhibits.
He wasn’t there.
She hurried to the gallery overlooking the museum’s main entrance lobby.
Nothing.
He had left.
No, he’d vanished.
Mysterious Mr. Cassian was gone, as swiftly and cleanly as a ghost.
HE HAD RISKED FAR TOO MUCH.
Cass made a hasty dash through the city streets, oblivious of the rain that soaked his thrift store clothes and cheap, soggy shoes.
He was across the city from the museum now, unsure where he was headed except that it had to be away. Far away. As far as he could get, and he had to go at once.
He hadn’t expected to linger as long as he had. In his mind, he’d imagined entering the museum for a few short minutes—just long enough to visit the treasure that had branded him a wanted man, traitor to his queen and his kind.
A treasure that he was giving up today … forever.
Of course, the anonymous donor of the Sleeping Endymion sculpture twenty-five years ago was no mystery to him. He couldn’t deny his satisfaction—his relief—at knowing that particular treasure was in a safe place, and had been all this time.
But the terra cotta figure wasn’t the only secret he’d been keeping since he’d fled the Atlantean queen’s court.
Either one of his secrets could have gotten him killed.
The risk of discovery was too great now. He was jeopardizing all he cherished by remaining in Boston.
He’d almost chanced this visit to the museum a couple of nights ago, but he’d lost his nerve and instead skulked outside the building like a wraith. He’d barely gotten away without creating undue notice.
But he had to look upon his greatest, most precious secret one last time—an indulgence he had been careful to avoid at all costs for nearly a quarter century.
Now he was content. He had to be, because today he was leaving for good. He could only hope that his secrets—and the treasure he cherished most of all—would be safer for his absence.
Cass had placed his trust in an ally who had proven his loyalty through years of silence and sacrifice. That trust had been reaffirmed at their meeting a couple of days ago.
Another ally—this one across the globe—one who risked as much as Cass in aiding him, had agreed to look out for Cass’s interests once he’d fled for his permanent exile.
An exile that would begin now.
Resolved, Cass pulled up his collar to shield himself from the slanting rain as he ducked down a side alley.
That’s when he noticed them—the trio of dark figures that had fallen in behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder and his stomach went cold.
Atlantean soldiers.
The three immortals were disguised in pedestrian street clothes, much as he was. But their purposeful stride and menacing presence were unmistakable.
And beneath the long hem of one of their sodden trench coats, Cassian spied the glint of an Atlantean blade.
There was a time he might have turned around and faced this threat. A time when he would have fought it, even unarmed as he was now.
But today, he knew true fear.
Not for himself, but for the secrets he would die to protect.
Cass took off running, leading the legion guards as far away from the museum as he could, calling upon every ounce of his preternatural agility and speed.
The queen’s men were close behind him—too close. They zigged and zagged as he did, ne
ver losing sight of him for a second.
In minutes, Cass and his pursuers were in the city’s old North End. He hadn’t intended it, but his feet had carried him to the only home he’d truly known since coming to Boston.
La Notte was just ahead. Through the rain, Cass saw the back entrance of the club a few hundred yards in front of him.
The Atlantean guards had split up at some point.
Cassian lost track of one of them.
He didn’t see the assassin until it was too late.
The soldier from Selene’s royal court appeared out of nowhere, standing in front of him, long blade gleaming.
I’m dead, Cassian realized. It was over now.
He knew it, even before he felt the ice-cold kiss of Atlantean steel biting into the side of his neck.
“A toast,” Carys said, raising a glass of red wine across the table from Jordana at one of their favorite Italian restaurants in the city’s old North End. “To the exhibit grand opening. I know it’s going to be a huge success.”
“I hope so.” Jordana sighed and clinked her glass against her friend’s. “Did you check to make sure the placard on the French tapestry was corrected? And now I’m wondering if I shouldn’t have moved that display of Roman pottery from where we had it for the patrons’ reception. Do you think it should go back to its original place?”
Carys grinned and rolled her eyes. “It’s perfect, Jordana, all of it. You thought of everything. The exhibit couldn’t possibly be in better hands.”
“Thanks.” Jordana smiled at the compliment, but she couldn’t help being reminded of her odd visitor, Mr. Cassian, and the fact that he’d said something very similar to her.
Carys gave her a quizzical look. “Did I say something funny?”
“No, it’s just …” Jordana shook her head. “A man came in to view the exhibit this afternoon.”
Carys frowned. “Someone you know?”
“No, I’d never seen him before. He apparently just wandered in from the street.”
“But the exhibit doesn’t open to the public until tomorrow night,” Carys pointed out.
“That’s what I told him.” Jordana took a sip of her wine. “He didn’t seem bothered that we weren’t officially open yet.”
“Weird,” Carys said, twisting some pasta onto her fork. “What did he want?”
Jordana shrugged. “I suppose he wanted to look at the art. That’s what he said, anyway. We talked for a while about Italian sculptors and compared some of the pieces in the collection, then he left.”
Carys eyed her over the rim of her wineglass. “Like I said, weird.”
“He was … nice,” Jordana said, taking a bite of her scampi as she thought about the man and the short time she spent with him in the exhibit.
He was a stranger, a peculiar one at that, and yet she’d felt almost instantly at ease around him. Despite his oddness and his uninvited presence in the museum, she had felt comfortable with him; safe, in some indefinable way. And she would have enjoyed talking with him a bit longer, had he not left the museum without explanation as soon as she turned her back.
Vanished, more like it.
Maybe Carys was right, there was something weird about the man.
Jordana’s musing was interrupted when her friend’s comm unit pulsed on the edge of the table with an incoming call.
“It’s Aric.” There was a note of bitterness in Carys’s voice as she spoke her brother’s name. Her fingers hovered over the device for less than a second before she drew her hand back onto her lap with a shallow sigh. The comm unit buzzed again, but Carys remained still, her mouth pressed into a flat line.
Jordana studied her across the small table. “You can’t shut him out forever, Car.” The Chase siblings hadn’t spoken since their heated confrontation over Rune the other night, and Jordana knew it was killing Carys to have a wall standing between her and her twin.
The device vibrated again, and with reluctance written all over her face, Carys finally picked it up. Before she even had the chance to utter a word of greeting, Aric’s deep voice came over the receiver. “Carys, where the hell are you right now?”
“Hello to you too, brother dear.”
His response was clipped and dark. “Are you at La Notte?”
“Since when do I have to answer to you, Aric?” Amber light sparked in the Breed female’s blue eyes. “Where I am is no business of yours. I thought I made that clear to you.”
“Dammit, Carys! I’m not playing a fucking game here,” he snarled, and suddenly it was obvious that Aric’s demanding tone wasn’t about anger but something more visceral. Something more urgent than that. He was calling out of fear and worry for his sibling. “Carys, tell me you’re nowhere near that goddamn place right now.”
Carys’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “What’s going on?”
Jordana could no longer hear Aric on the other end, but judging from his sister’s stricken expression, the news wasn’t good. Carys inhaled a sharp breath, her fingers coming up to her mouth for an instant before relief flooded back into her features. She listened for a moment, her face grim, then she quietly ended the call.
She glanced across the table at Jordana. “There’s been a killing at La Notte.”
“Oh, no,” Jordana murmured. “But it wasn’t—”
“No.” Carys shook her head. “Not Rune, thank God. Aric said it wasn’t any of the fighters, but he didn’t have any more information than that. Some of the warriors are heading there now to investigate. Aric told me to stay away from the club tonight.”
And yet Carys was already pulling out cash enough for the bill and a generous tip from her pocketbook. “I have to see Rune,” she explained as she got up. “I just need to see for myself that he’s okay.”
The depth of Carys’s love for the fighter was evident in her eyes. So was her fear. The strong Breed female trembled where she stood, visibly shaken by the news of a death at the place where her lover risked his life every night in the cages.
And while Jordana had no wish to be anywhere near the Order if it meant she might run into Nathan, she wasn’t about to let her friend go there alone.
“Come on,” Jordana said. “I’ll drive.”
Carys managed a faint nod and followed Jordana out to her car.
They made the short trek across town, arriving at La Notte’s block in mere minutes. The club was closed, the arched wooden doors of the old church building barred.
A pair of immense bouncers was parked at the top of the steps leading up to the place, standing shoulder to shoulder in the dark beneath the thin lamplight at the front entrance. As the club’s usual stream of patrons arrived to party upstairs or do other, less savory things in the lower level, the two bouncers turned them away on arrival.
“Drive past and turn down the side alley,” Carys instructed Jordana as she slowed outside the club.
They rounded the corner and found the alleyway access blocked by one of the Order’s huge, unmarked black patrol vehicles. Carys hopped out of the car the instant Jordana brought it to a full stop. Jordana followed her, only to be halted along with Carys by one of Nathan’s team.
“Out of my way, Jax,” Carys said as the pantherlike Asian vampire moved out of the shadows to intercept the women.
“Captain said no civilians, Carys. We’ve got a crime scene back there.”
“I know. Aric called me. I just want to see Rune.”
Jax gave a shake of his dark head. “He’s around back with some of the other club staff, but you ladies are gonna have to stay out here for now. Trust me, you don’t wanna see—”
“I’m going back there.” Carys shoved past the warrior, breaking into a bolt before he was able to react.
Jordana followed her, jogging to keep up as her friend rushed around to the rear of the building. Rune may not have been injured here tonight, but it was obvious there was no one, not Carys’s brother or any of the Order itself, who could keep the female away from the fighter she loved
.
“Rune!” Carys called to the dark-haired Breed male as she and Jordana rounded the back of the club. Standing among a few of the other fighters and La Notte staff gathered in the gloom behind the old brick church building, Rune glanced up at Carys’s shout.
His hard face was grave, his eyes shadowed and grim as he broke away from his colleagues to meet her as she and Jordana approached. Carys launched herself into his arms.
“Rune, I was so worried! Aric called and told me someone died at the club. Even though he said it wasn’t you, I had to see for myself. I had to be sure—”
“Shh,” the brutal fighter soothed, stroking his broad palm over the back of Carys’s head as she clung to him. “It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.”
While the couple embraced, sharing private words of comfort and affection, Jordana drifted away from them. Although she’d never been to a crime scene before, and didn’t want to be at one now, she found herself drawn toward the dark stretch of pavement where the apparent victim lay, surrounded by the team of warriors from the Order.
Her heels ticked hollowly on the asphalt, an odd sense of dread snaking around her with every careful step. Death hung in the air, cold and cloying. It lifted goose bumps on her arms, put a chill knot behind her sternum.
Although she didn’t want to look—didn’t want to know what kind of violent end someone had met with a short while ago—Jordana couldn’t keep her gaze from peering between the warriors at the slain individual on the ground.
She caught a glimpse of baggy, worn denim on the skewed legs of the victim. The brown loafers on the man’s feet were scuffed and aged … familiar.
Oh, no. It couldn’t be …
She was holding her breath. She knew that even before the ache in her starving lungs forced her to suck in air.
Even before she saw all the blood on the asphalt, and the object lying next to the body. An object that looked unmistakably like the dead man’s—
Before her horrified mind could confirm what her eyes were seeing, a deep voice was at her ear. “Holy hell.” A pair of strong arms swept her away from the scene, a firm hand holding her head against a rock-solid chest covered in black combat fatigues. “Jesus Christ, Jordana. What the fuck are you doing here?”