Night's Cold Kiss

by Tracey O'Hara

  Catching her disheveled reflection in the mirror above the basin, she leaned in closer. No wonder they’d suggested she come in here—she looked like hell.

  Her eyes, emphasized by dark circles, were sunken in her head and a feverish flush covered her cheeks. She massaged the temples of her pounding head and turned on the faucet, splashing her face. The water, like ice over hot coals, dashed the heat on her cheeks. She reached for one of the fluffy white towels hanging from the brass rail beside the counter.

  Feeling a little better, she found some painkillers under the counter and took a second look at the bed. Maybe if she just lay down for a bit…

  Antoinette crawled from the bed, running a hand over her face to wipe away the sleep. She glanced at her watch. Shit. It’d been an hour. She’d only wanted to close her eyes for a minute. What would her uncle think?

  Wait…something’s wrong. Nothing she could put a finger on, but the hair on the back of her neck prickled, and she’d learned over the years to trust that feeling.

  Barefoot, she opened the door a crack and peered into the main cabin. Empty. Where was everyone? The dim lights formed dark shadows around the edges of the cabin, making it difficult to see. She let the door close behind her. Only the faint, constant drone of the engines echoed through the room and she frowned.

  Halfway across the floor, her foot slid in something sticky. The coppery scent hit her nostrils as she squatted to investigate. Blood. Her instincts kicked into full alert—she crouched lower, her eyes darting left and right.

  A trap! They’d been lured here to die. Drawn in by scheming vampires—she knew they weren’t to be trusted.

  Well, they wouldn’t get her without a fight. Oh God, Sergei. She went for her weapons case only to find it gone.

  Shit! The bastards had taken it. She had to reach the cockpit and force the plane down. Somehow. She had to get back on the ground. There she had more of a chance—more control.

  For the first time she noticed a dripping noise coming from up ahead. Antoinette tilted her head, trying to locate the source and inched forward. The galley.

  She whipped aside the concertina door to find Mary slumped against the wall, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, her throat ripped open. The blood formed vivid crimson rivulets against her pallid skin. But the eyes were the worst, terror frozen in their vacant gaze.

  An overturned coffeepot lay on the counter. A large fat drop fell slowly with a splat into a pool of mingled blood and coffee on the floor beside Mary. Something gnawed at Antoinette’s thoughts. Why would Christian murder his staff?

  Maybe it was the other one.

  The cockpit door to her right banged shut as the plane dipped with a pocket of turbulence. Antoinette’s heart lodged into her throat and her stomach sank; already knowing what she’d find. She steeled herself and carefully pushed open the door.

  The breath left her lungs in a whoosh and she felt as if she’d been sucker-punched in the gut. Blood was splattered across the inside of the windshield in the telltale sign of arterial spray. The captain lolled sideways in the chair, his hand wrapped around a gun as the controls moved on their own. Thank God for autopilot.

  Antoinette turned the copilot’s chair, hoping against hope he may still be alive, yet knowing he wouldn’t. The man had a gaping hole where his throat had once been, just like the captain.

  So brutal. This wasn’t the frenzied attack to satisfy a death-high. This has been done slowly out of pleasure—pure, simple, and perverted pleasure. Besides, there was no trace of the telltale scent in the recycled air.

  She tried to push down the bitter taste of panic rising up the back of her throat as her heart beat wildly in her chest. She must not give in to fear—it would get her killed more quickly than anything else.

  A strange warmth bloomed in her mind and spread throughout her body, clouding her thoughts and soothing away the feelings of horror at the scene in front of her.

  She turned. Her breath quickening. Christian stood a few feet away—shirtless. Her body betrayed her at the sight of his bare chest; his lean, well-defined frame glowed in the dim light. Her fingers itched to rake through his hair and trace the ridges across his stomach.

  She grew hot and ran her hands over her hips, lifting her dress high as she rubbed her thighs together.

  No, came a voice from within. She shook her head, trying to clear the creeping fog. What had she come here looking for?

  Focus, take back control. There was something she had to do. Something important, only she couldn’t remember what it was.

  He held out a beckoning hand and her feet moved on their own.

  Stop—he’s doing this to you.

  But she couldn’t stop. His eyes drew her in, brilliant blue like the Aegean Sea. She wanted to dive into their cool depths and lose herself forever.

  She reached him and he pulled her against his chest. His hot scent overpowered her senses, making her weak and turning her legs to jelly.

  He forced her back against the wall, pinning her wrists above her head, claiming her mouth with his, devouring her. And she let him. His hardness pressed against her and she knew she wanted him, right here, right now. If he’d let go of her wrists, she’d rip off those trousers and show him just how much.

  This time the voice inside screamed. You have to stop. Snap out of it before it’s too late. This is wrong.

  But how could it be wrong to be in his arms? How could it be wrong to have his lips on hers? This was right.

  “Oh so right,” she whispered, and sighed as he moved his kisses to her throat.

  A groan escaped her and her skin burned with feverish pleasure. He unbuttoned her dress, reached inside, cupped a lace-covered breast, and brushed her erect nipple with the pad of his thumb.

  She swayed with heady pleasure, her knees almost buckling and she cried out. He traced kisses across her naked skin. When he moved back to her throat, she thought she would burst if he didn’t take her soon.

  His lips brushed her ear. “Hush little baby, don’t say a word,” he whispered.

  She froze. That rhyme—why that rhyme? The one he had sung.

  As if plunged into icy water, her passion died. She wrenched her wrists from his grasp then pushed him away to find that instead of Christian’s stirring blue eyes, a cold pale gaze stared back. Lank brown hair had replaced thick dark locks.

  She knew his face so well. It’d visited every childhood nightmare. That same cold smile chilled her now, just as it had back then.

  “Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.” The killer continued to sing the same haunting lullaby he’d sung all those years ago as he slit her mother’s throat before her six-year-old eyes.

  She felt warmth pooling around her feet and she looked down expecting to see she’d wet herself with fright, just as she had back then. But it was blood. Her blood.

  The scream tore from her throat. “Nooooooo!”

  7

  Mother, Oh Mother

  Sitting bolt upright, chest heaving, Antoinette shook herself out of the nightmare. Perspiration ran down her face and the dress clung to her damp skin. Gulping back air, she looked at her watch. Only about fifteen minutes had passed.

  It’d been several years since he’d visited her sleep. Dream demons and memories haunted her as she stumbled into the bathroom. The reflection of her flushed face blurred as tears filled her eyes and her brain hammered against the inside of her skull.

  The night Dante Rubins slit her mother’s throat Antoinette had been six years old and just as helpless as she was in her dream. The image of Mama’s blue eyes dimming as death took her had haunted Antoinette ever since. Dante had maintained a total hold over Antoinette’s mind and body, making her watch the lifeblood seep from her mother’s jugular to soak the front her dress.

  Maybe the dream was an omen, warning her against becoming too complacent, reminding her of who and what Christian and his friend were. Things were never as they appeared on the surface and she sensed they were hiding somet
hing. The Aeternus were not to be trusted. Ever. She’d never turn her back on a dreniac, nor should she on an Aeternus.

  After Antoinette tidied herself up, she found her shoes and slipped them on. When she reached the door, her shaking hand stopped inches from the handle. Her heart pounded as the nightmare aftershocks haunted her.

  Déjà vu.

  Get a hold of yourself—it was just a dream.

  Still, she had to crack the door slightly to be able to hear anything in this soundproofed room. Through the gap she heard familiar voices, speaking in low tones and relaxed her forehead against the wall to gather herself.

  “Are you certain she doesn’t know?” that Viktor-guy said.

  She pressed her ear closer to the crack.

  “Yes,” her uncle’s voice answered. “If she did she would have…” His voice trailed off as he moved away and she could no longer make out what he was saying.

  Would have what? Who were they talking about?

  “Still, she’ll have to be told eventually,” Christian’s voice said with a sting in his tone.

  “Da. But not yet.” Sergei only reverted to his native tongue when he was drunk, very tired, or stressed, and he didn’t sound all that drunk or tired.

  “It’ll have to be soon if she is going to help with the investigation,” Christian said.

  “Let me find out what I can from my Guild contacts first. It’s a matter requiring…delicacy. Not Antoinette’s greatest forte.”

  She stiffened in stunned silence, her hand now resting on the handle. Why would Uncle Sergei keep things from her? There was only one way to find out.

  The suite door flew open and crashed against the wall. Christian turned as Antoinette exploded into the room, eyes firing and face flushed.

  “What’s going on here?” she demanded, her fists clenching and unclenching.

  Sergei leaned forward against his cane. “Antoinette, I—”

  She turned on him. “Even you…” Her voice rose a hysterical octave. “Sneaking around behind my back, keeping secrets from me. I would never have expected it of you, Uncle.”

  Sergei looked away, his shoulders slumping.

  “That’s enough.” Christian’s voice was controlled, belying the anger that seethed within—she’d pushed too far.

  Turning on him, she met his gaze squarely. “You mind your own business, vampire,” she spat.

  “I’ve told you not to call us that, and this is my business. You’re a guest on my plane and you’ll respect all of my guests.”

  “I’ll not be spoken to like a child.”

  “Then stop behaving like one,” Sergei barked.

  Her eyes widened in shock and then they narrowed dangerously on Christian before she crossed the distance between them. “What’ll you do? Throw me off the plane?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  “You could try, bloodsucker.” She pulled back her arm and punched him right in the face.

  He did nothing to block it and after his head rocked back he looked her in the eye as he licked the drop of blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “Antoinette,” Sergei roared, coming to his feet.

  Christian caught her next swing by the wrist mere inches from his face. “Is it any wonder you’ve not been told anything when you go off half-cocked—attacking first and questions later?” he said through gritted teeth.

  Tears welled and she stopped struggling against him. Then he noticed her flushed face, the beads of sweat on her brow and upper lip, and the way she flinched when he held her arm. Christian pulled her closer, placing his hand on her forehead. Heat radiated from her in waves. She struggled, trying to push him away but he held her tighter.

  “You’re unwell,” he said.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Is that true?” Sergei asked, his brows knitting in worry.

  She slowly nodded and turned to Sergei. “I thought it was just a headache.”

  “Your wound,” Sergei said. “It’s infected, isn’t it?”

  Christian guessed the same thing.

  Antoinette shrugged her shoulders. “You know how quickly these things can turn.”

  “Damn it—why didn’t you say something earlier?” Christian demanded.

  “Because I thought it was just a headache,” she repeated, her eyes glittering feverishly highlighting her black eye.

  “Well, we’d better get this infection under control—now,” Christian said. “Come on.”

  “I’ll see a doctor when we reach New York.” She backed away a step.

  “NO—We’ll take care of it now.” He took her by the wrist.

  She stubbornly raised her chin.

  Stupid, proud little fool. But he didn’t have time for this crap.

  Grabbing her by the elbow, he pulled her closer—her eyes widened and she turned from a deep pink to a flaming flush. She stamped hard on his foot. An Aeternus he may be, but he still felt pain.

  The last of his patience evaporated. With one smooth movement he scooped her up and carried her into the room she’d erupted from so dramatically minutes earlier.

  When he reached the crumpled bed, he dumped her unceremoniously on it. Her face screwed up as she grunted and scowled at him; he felt a momentary stab of guilt for his rough handling.

  “How dare you?” she spat.

  “I dare as I please,” he said coolly.

  Sergei stood in the open door. “Let Christian tend to it, niece.”

  “I want to see a human doctor. What would an Aeternus know about humans?”

  “Sorry, but I’m the closest thing you’ve got.” Christian crossed his arms. “I’ve practice medicine on humans before, now—take off that dress and let me have a look.”

  Her stubborn chin rose higher as she glared at him.

  “If you don’t take it off I’ll be forced to do it myself,” he warned. “And with the mood I’m in, it won’t be gentle.”

  From the corner of his eye he saw Sergei back out of the room, shutting the door behind him. When she didn’t move he took a step toward her.

  “Okay.” She held up a restraining hand. “Okay—I’ll do it.” She climbed off the bed and reached for the zipper on the side of the dress before looking at him over her shoulder. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” He leaned his shoulder casually against the wall. “I’ve seen a naked body or two in my time.”

  “Not mine, you haven’t,” she said, then swore under her breath before turning her back to him to slip the dress over her head.

  His stomach knotted as he ran his gaze over her semi-naked curves covered only by tiny lace panties and a matching bra. The ivory lingerie against her creamy skin was more than he’d been prepared for. Her body was honed to Venator perfection by hours of martial arts training, yet soft in all the right places.

  A red and black dragon tattoo sat in the small of her perfect back, the tip of the tail disappearing into the crevice between her buttocks just beneath her panties. His pants suddenly seemed tighter and fangs nudged his gums on either side of his front teeth.

  He hadn’t lied when he said he’d seen a female or two. He’d seen literally hundreds, maybe even thousands, of women in varying stages of dress and undress in his life time. But he’d rarely seen anything of such beauty. Antoinette was put together perfectly. Her muscles danced beneath her skin enlivening the tattoo dragon—he swore the beast watched him. What would it be like to run his lips across this skin art? Would it feel as alive as it looked? And how he’d love to trace that tail to its conclusion…

  “Well, now what?” she asked, her back still to him.

  Thank goodness his loose top covered the bulge in his jeans. “Um…lie down on the bed while I wash my hands,” he said, swallowing hard.

  He closed the bathroom door and leaned his hands against the counter, trying to regain a hold of himself. “She’s just another human—there’s nothing special about her.” But he could hear the lie in his own voice.

  “Did you say
something?” she called from the other room.

  “No.” He glanced at his reflection before retrieving some medical supplies from the cabinet under the counter.

  He hadn’t lied about practicing medicine—although he purposely hadn’t mentioned that it was mostly during the American Civil War, and not on many women patients. Now that had definitely been a baptism by fire—or, should he say blood.

  Antoinette felt embarrassingly naked, something she’d never felt before. She’d grown up in a unisex Venator preparatory school where there was little room for modesty with communal showers, locker rooms, and absolutely no privacy. Now she had her own room back at the school dorms, but she still shared the rest.

  He didn’t say she couldn’t cover herself. As Christian rattled around in the bathroom she grabbed the bedspread from the end of the bed and drew it up to her chest. Unfortunately, the movement set off a wave of nausea and the pain flared again. She lay back against the pillows, breathing through the throbbing ache. It wasn’t nearly as bad as before, though, when he’d picked her up—she’d had to bite her lip to stop from crying out.

  She could endure pain; it was part of being a Venator. What she had trouble with was his hands on her skin. His cool touch felt too good against her fevered flesh, like a welcome breeze on a hot summer’s day.

  She clenched the blanket in her fists. Damn, she must be really sick to get all girly and poetic. Her stomach roiled. She wasn’t sure if this was nausea or the memory of the way he’d unceremoniously dumped her onto the bed. Bastard.

  Then again she had asked for it by punching him. And in a perverse kind of way, she’d liked it. Normally she had better control over her tongue and temper, but Christian seemed to bring out the worst in her for some reason.

  The bathroom door opened. Christian carried a tray into the room and pulled a nearby stool closer. As he sat down, he reached out and ripped away her covering and the old dressing in quick succession before she had a chance to prepare herself or argue.