Quinn

by D. B. Reynolds

  Garrick regarded him somberly. “Be careful, Quinn.”

  “I’m always careful. You know that.”

  “I do. Just . . . make sure your eyes are open. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been fucked over by a woman, but the stakes are a hell of a lot higher now.”

  Quinn stared back at him. His cousin was right. But he really didn’t need a reminder of the worst time in his life, or the woman who’d changed everything.

  Boston, MA, USA, 57 years ago

  QUINN WOKE THE morning after his phone conversation with the strange woman, Marcelina, feeling groggy from too much sleep. Apparently, his body couldn’t decide if it wanted more rest or more work. No surprise there. He wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore, either. He went for a run, and when he came back, he discovered that a message from Garrick had come in overnight. He hit play.

  “Hey, Q, long time and all that. Don’t worry, Marcelina’s cool. I’ll pick you up at 7:00 tonight; we’ll go to her house. You still live at the same place, I’m guessing. You didn’t move without telling me, or anything, right?” His cousin laughed. “See you then.”

  “Well, fuck,” Quinn swore, staring at the phone. “Thanks for the advance warning, asshole.” He looked around his townhouse and decided he’d work at home for a few hours, then meet his cousin and get this over with. Whatever the mysterious Marcelina needed, he could probably handle it with a letter or two, maybe a phone call. And then he could get back to his career, and the work he was paid for.

  AT 6:52 PM Quinn’s phone rang. He picked up the receiver, but Garrick spoke before he could answer, saying, “I’ll be there in five. Wait for me out front, so I don’t have to park.” He hung up before Quinn could say a word.

  “Nice talking to you, too,” Quinn muttered, but pulled on his jacket, flicked off the lights, and locked the door behind him. He was just zipping his jacket against the cold, when Garrick’s BMW whipped around the corner. They’d both done well in life, but Quinn had the feeling Garrick was enjoying it more.

  It had rained earlier and the night was cold, making Garrick’s BMW skid a little on a slick patch of ice before stopping. Quinn opened the door and dropped onto the leather seat. He didn’t even own a car. Traffic was a nightmare, and you didn’t need one to get around in Boston. When necessary, he hired a car service.

  “What’s this about?” They sped away too fast on the icy road, but if he said anything, he’d have to endure his cousin’s taunts about being an old man.

  “It’s like Marcelina told you,” Garrick said. “The property’s been in her family for generations, but some big developer wants it, and he’s bought off the right politician. The county’s trying to seize it.”

  “What’s the deal with the title?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Quinn. That’s why we called you.”

  “What is she to you?” he asked curiously, mainly because he’d never known his cousin to get seriously involved with a woman, any more than he did. They both favored short, intense affairs. Good sex, no commitment.

  “She’s . . . special. You’ll see.”

  He frowned. What the hell did that mean? The woman had, frankly, sounded too old to be a girlfriend. “Special, as in, you’re serious about her?”

  Garrick grimaced, seeming uncomfortable. “Just wait and see, all right? It’s not that far.”

  Quinn shrugged. Whatever. He stared out the window. This whole situation was seeming odder and odder. Even Garrick was being weird. He was equal parts relieved and surprised when they turned down the long driveway of a Chestnut Hill estate that had seen better days. This was where she lived? Hell, if this was the property in question, he wasn’t surprised some developer was trying to steal it. Depending on the acreage, it was worth millions. Sub-divided, it would be millions multiplied by however many homes they built. He could also understand why the city was willing to help get it into the developer’s greedy little hands. The driveway was in disrepair and the house, which he could now see more clearly, had definitely not been kept up. He wouldn’t be surprised if complaints from the neighbors had been the driving force behind the political push for the property’s sale.

  He frowned. The Chestnut Hill location would make things much trickier. Chestnut Hill wasn’t a city in itself, but actually included parts of three separate municipalities. It could be a real nightmare figuring out who had jurisdiction, especially if the property crossed municipal lines.

  “You sure she owns this place?” he asked, staring up at a big co­lonial-style mansion that appeared, at first glance, to be unoccupied.

  “Yeah. But she’s been living in Europe. She only came back to deal with all this crap.”

  Well, that explained the weird accent, Quinn considered. “Does she have a caretaker, a groundskeeper? Anyone charged with keeping the place up?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?” They had stopped at the foot of some stairs leading to a broad, uncovered porch.

  “I will.” Quinn eyed the mansion as they climbed out of the car. “Anyone live here with her?”

  “Not yet,” Garrick said, and there was something just . . . odd about the way he said it. Something that made Quinn turn and stare.

  “You okay, buddy?” he asked.

  Garrick grinned. “Never better. Come on. Marcelina’s waiting.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Quinn said dryly and followed his cousin into the house. He coughed the minute the door closed behind him. It was dark and dusty. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said no one had lived here in a long, long time, which had just added fuel to the municipality’s determination to seize the property. He made a mental note to check the tax records the next day to find out exactly which municipality that was, and if there was any record of . . . His thoughts trailed off when she ap­peared.

  “Quinn,” the woman said in a voice that was like a thousand angels singing.

  He blinked. Where the fuck had that thought come from? He stared at the small woman standing in an arched opening off the foyer. The room behind her was dimly lit, but a fire burned on the far wall silhouetting what he had to admit was a killer body. Her petite form was all curves, with pale breasts mounded over a corset-style top, and a tiny waist that flared to a generous swell of hips and thighs. Black pants that resembled riding breeches clung to her legs and were tucked into similarly styled boots. He found it unlikely that she’d just come in from a ride around the paddock, and so assumed the skin-tight outfit was purely for effect. He was male enough to admit it was a nice effect, but it made him wonder who this woman was, and why Garrick was so taken with her.

  She stepped closer. Long dark hair curled over her shoulders and down her back. Her eyes were dark and luminous, her lips full and red. Those lips curled into a smile, and he had to fight the urge to back up. He was more than a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier than she was, and she appeared to be unarmed. So, why did he feel as though he should grab his cousin and get the hell out of there?

  “Quinn,” Garrick said, dropping a heavy arm over his shoulders. “This is Marcelina. My lady, this is the cousin I told you about.”

  Yeah, Quinn was beginning to wish Garrick had forgotten he had a cousin.

  Marcelina was staring at Quinn expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something. He remained silent, still fighting the urge to get the hell out of Dodge, and he figured anything he said to her would only make things worse. Like when he was a kid and he’d ignored the monsters in his closet, because if he acknowledged them, they’d become real.

  “Quinn,” she said again, and he heard the disapproval in her voice, as if he’d disappointed her. “Why don’t you both come sit down? We can discuss things.”

  He looked into the dim room beyond. “I’m going to need more light if you want me to review any documents.”

  She walked away, her laugh a
delicate chiming sound that drifted over her shoulder.

  Again with the flowery descriptors, Quinn thought. What the fuck was going on with his head? “Garrick,” he muttered, pulling his cousin close. “What the hell—”

  “It’s rude to whisper, Quinn,” Marcelina called. “Garrick, bring your cousin inside please.”

  Quinn frowned at the clear command underlying that delicate voice, and his frown deepened to a scowl when Garrick grabbed his arm and propelled him forward with unexpected strength. The two cousins had always been roughly the same size. When had Garrick gained the new muscle? And why?

  “Come on,” Garrick said harshly. “Be polite and listen.”

  Quinn’s eyebrows shot upward, but he went along. If it meant this much to Garrick, he’d give it a shot.

  “Quinn, you sit here,” Marcelina said, patting the seat next to her with a delicate hand that bore sharp-looking fingernails polished a rich red.

  Quinn would have preferred not to sit so close, but Garrick body- blocked him onto the short couch where she sat, while taking a satin-covered chair for himself, sitting at a right angle.

  “This is nice,” she purred.

  Quinn noticed her perfume for the first time—something flowery and too heavy. He hated women who drowned themselves in perfume. But then she leaned closer and touched her fingers to the bare skin of his hand. His skin crawled, and he suddenly found himself struggling against a strange fogginess that was trying to take over his thoughts . . . Too late.

  It was the last thought he had.

  QUINN WOKE TO a pounding headache and the awareness that it wasn’t only his head that was hurting. His whole body felt like he’d been beaten with rubber mallets. He sat up with a groan. It was still dark, and he thanked God for small favors. There was nothing worse than having the sun drilling into his brain when he was hungover. He braced his feet on the floor and ran a hand through his hair, stopping when he realized he was still wearing his clothes. All of his clothes, including his boots. He looked around. This wasn’t his townhouse. In fact, this wasn’t anyplace that he recognized. And he couldn’t remember drinking, either. He hadn’t gotten drunk in more years than he could count.

  A thrill of fear shot along his nerves, and his first thought was for Garrick. Ignoring the agony, he stood and felt along the walls until he found a light switch. He flicked it up and down, but nothing happened. Continuing along the wall, he found a door. He pulled it open and stepped out onto a second floor landing. Moonlight shone through the cut-glass panels of a front door and two side windows, and lit a wide foyer down below. Firelight flickered through a broad archway, and Quinn abruptly remembered where he was. What he didn’t know was why he was still there. And why he felt so fucking awful. Where was Garrick?

  Wait. Moonlight? He stared through the glass door. That couldn’t be right. Had he lost an entire day here? An entire fucking day? He’d come to this dusty wreck of a house on a Sunday. Did that mean it was now Monday and he’d lost a whole day of work? How was that possible? His office would have been looking for him. He needed a phone. Needed to call his office. He never missed work, never went even a few hours without calling in.

  His pounding head suddenly secondary, he strode onto the landing and down the stairs, determined to get some answers. Marcelina was waiting in the firelit room, with Garrick standing watch over her like a guard. He gave Quinn a searching look, his gaze cautious, hesitant.

  “All is well, Garrick,” Marcelina said, squeezing his hand. “Quinn is with us now.”

  Quinn opened his mouth to demand an explanation, but before he could say a word, Marcelina pinned him with a stare and said, “Kneel.”

  Laughter tried to force its way out of his throat, but before he’d taken a breath, his knees hit the floor. He raised stunned eyes, first to Garrick, who wouldn’t meet his gaze, and then to Marcelina, who was smiling with utmost satisfaction.

  “Come here, Quinn,” she said, sitting down and patting the sofa as she’d done before.

  He tried to get up, but found he couldn’t. It was as if his knees were stuck to the floor. He gave her a confused look.

  “Crawl,” she said, with a cruel edge to her soft voice.

  Humiliation and rage flushed his chest and face with heat, but he found he had no choice. If he wanted to move, it would be on his hands and knees. And something was compelling him to move. Marcelina. He could sense the pressure she was exerting on him, as if a rope was strung between them and she was the only one pulling. He tried to resist, tried to lean back and get away from her. He should have been far stronger than she was. But that no longer seemed to be true.

  She gave a yank hard enough that he nearly fell on his face. “I said, come here,” she growled.

  Quinn counted off every inch of the short distance between them, promising himself he’d pay her back, and storing every second of his humiliation against the day he’d make her do the crawling.

  “So much anger.” She gave a trilling laugh. “It’s pointless, but you’re a stubborn one. You’ll have to learn for yourself. But in the meantime, you’ll do what I brought you here for. This house is mine, and I intend to keep it. You need to fix it.”

  “What?” She wanted him to fix the place up? He didn’t have any handyman skills to speak of.

  “You will address me as, “Mistress!” Her voice carried a crack of power that hit him like a cane across his chest. He might have fallen if it had been possible. But she had his knees rooted to the ground, so that all he could do was sway.

  Quinn stared at her. Did she want him to repeat his question?

  She made a disgusted noise and looked at him doubtfully. “Maybe the turning damaged you. It happens sometimes, although it would be very inconvenient. What am I supposed to do with you?” She stared at him expectantly.

  “Probably best if you release me . . . Mistress,” he added with an intentional delay. “And Garrick, too.”

  Marcelina screeched furiously and slapped him across the face with her open hand. The blow knocked him hard enough that he fell to one side, blinking in surprise. For such a tiny thing, she sure packed a wallop.

  And his much-vaunted brain finally caught up to current events.

  “You’re not human,” he muttered, pulling himself to his knees from where he’d slumped back and sat on his heels.

  “You are a fool.”

  “Maybe. But I’m right. What are you? And what have you done to me?”

  Marcelina smiled then. It was a shark’s grin, full of far too many teeth. Quinn squinted. Some of those teeth didn’t look . . . Oh, shit.

  “You’re a vampire,” he said flatly.

  She laughed. “And so are you! I made you, and that makes you mine.”

  “The hell it does.” Another blow struck him hard on the jaw, though she hadn’t bothered using her hand this time. It was the same as when she’d hit his chest earlier, a strike by an invisible weapon.

  “I am your Sire, boy. Your mistress. And you will respect me, or pay the price.”

  Quinn thought the price would be worth it. There was no way in hell he was ever going to respect this crazy bitch. But Garrick was standing there, silently pleading with Quinn to do . . . what? Go along? Just shut the fuck up? Somehow get them out of this mess? His mouth twisted with emotion. Anger. Rage. He wanted to lash out at someone. At Garrick for putting them in this situation, at the bitch Marcelina for thinking she could hold them here for as long as her batshit crazy mind could fathom.

  But it wasn’t Garrick’s fault. If Marcelina could capture Quinn— and for all her deranged mind, she had captured him—then she’d have been able to capture Garrick, too. He didn’t know the specifics, but he knew his cousin wouldn’t have gone down easily. So what to do next? How did they get out of this mess?

  The answer was clear, although he hated it. He’d h
ave to play along, bide his time. There was too much he didn’t know, didn’t understand. Marcelina thought she was clever, thought she had them well and truly trapped. But Quinn was more than clever. He had one of the best legal minds in the city. The question was, could he play along convincingly enough to make Marcelina believe? To get her to relax and let slip what he needed to know?

  He clenched his jaw. “Forgive me, Mistress,” he said, every word like glass in his throat. “This is all so confusing, and I’m so hungry,” he added, realizing with a lurch of his stomach that it was true. He was hungry, but not for food. Damn it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she crooned, now stroking his sore jaw. “But I’ll teach you. Here,” she said, offering him her delicate wrist. “Drink. My blood is stronger, and it will bind us closer together.”

  The last thing Quinn wanted was to strengthen his bond to Marcelina. But the scent of her blood, so close to the surface, hit him like a brick to the head. And he was suddenly ravenous. His mouth closed over her wrist, and he drank.

  Howth, Ireland, present day

  NEITHER QUINN NOR Garrick ever mentioned Garrick’s role in recruiting Quinn for Marcelina’s use. But Quinn had never held it against his cousin. Oh, maybe he had, at the very beginning. But once he’d understood, once he’d seen what she could make him do, he’d known his cousin hadn’t been able to resist her demands. Garrick hadn’t been more than a few weeks made when she’d sent him after Quinn.