Not Edon’s kind of thing at all. He was wild at heart all the time: he didn’t need to dance around a maypole to show it.
He and Ara caught the fast train into the city, so fast he barely had time to use his tourist map to work out – and memorize – the route to the apartment Kingsley had set up. Ara had slept most of the way on the plane, slumped against him, slobbering on his shoulder. Edon thought that was pretty cute, but he didn’t dare mention that to Ara. She was still groggy on the train, her feet up on her black duffel, barely conscious enough to look out the window. True, it was daylight, and that wasn’t Ara’s best time: she really was a creature of the night. How she was going to manage Sweden in midsummer, when it was light more than it was dark, he wasn’t sure.
He nudged her awake when the train pulled into the station.
“We’re here, angel,” he said, laughing when her yawn turned into a scowl. “Taxi, subway or walk to the apartment? It’ll take us about thirty minutes to walk. How heavy’s your bag?”
“Light as a feather,” Ara retorted, though Edon suspected she would have said that even if she were packing anvils. “Let’s walk.”
At this time on a sunny summer morning, the waterways he’d spied from the plane formed a sparkling web, drawing together the islands of the city. Passing old men fishing and street vendors setting up for the day, Edon and Ara crossed the pedestrian bridge into the old-town island, Gamla Stan, and made their way through its narrow cobbled streets. Cafes and souvenir shops were opening, metal gates whirring up, chairs and tables scraped onto sidewalks. Already a tour group clogged one of the steep intersections, selfie-sticks waving above their heads like aluminum antennae.
At first glance this wasn’t Edon’s kind of city – way too claustrophobic and touristy, in his opinion. The church spires and candy-colored old townhouses were pretty enough, but – unlike Ara – he wasn’t here on vacation. He didn’t need to gawp at the palace where the Royal Family lived or line up to see where the Nobel Prizes got handed out. If he wanted to eat Swedish meatballs, he could have gone to Ikea. It was a relief to cross a much busier bridge on the other side, noisy and stinky with traffic, and wend through a mess of roadworks that fed pedestrians around a crowded bike lane and into an underpass. Inconvenient, scruffy, reeking of urine and beer – now that was a real city. Even if underpasses made his hackles rise.
They were on a big island now, Sodermalm, heading west to the apartment. Too many hipsters around for his liking, with their man-buns and bikes. Apparently the words “gluten-free,” emblazoned on a bakery window, didn’t need translation into Swedish.
“Hungry?” he asked Ara and she shook her head. She was blinking in the sunshine like a nocturnal animal.
“Let’s get to this place first,” she said to him, and she was right. Edon was watchful and alert as ever, sniffing for potential danger, wary of anyone who walked too close to them. To most people he and Ara probably looked like travelers who needed to unpack, shower and change their clothes, but still, Edon didn’t want to draw unwanted attention. Not when he didn’t know the level of threat here in Stockholm.
Or what he was doing here, when all the intelligence seemed so vague and based on hear-say. Why would Lucifer and the forces of darkness choose such a light, sun-dappled place for their re-emergence? Why opt for summer in a country where the sun barely set? Iceland in winter maybe, with steaming volcanos, long hours of darkness, and an eerie blue glint on its stark glaciers. But not Sweden in midsummer, with everyone riding around on bicycles wearing clogs, cut-off shorts and smiley faces. This place was one giant toothpaste commercial. The Nephilim would stand out a mile here.
Mariatorget was a rectangular small park, orderly and green and rimmed with tall swishing trees. Edon and Ara scuffed along its central pathway, past park benches and around a long pool studded with spraying fountains. Bicycles were chained to railings and lampposts, and small dogs bounded along its gravel paths, monitored by well-heeled elderly owners. The buildings on either side of the park formed two unblemished rows of townhouses, the sites of small luxury hotels and the kind of expensive café Edon generally avoided.
“You’re not in Chinatown anymore,” Ara said to him, the beginnings of a grin twitching her mouth.
“You’re right,” he said. “This is Williamsburg in two years’ time.”
“Aw, don’t say that!” Ara protested. At least she wasn’t tired or sullen anymore.
“This whole island used to be the working-class district of Stockholm,” he told her. “Then the gentrifiers moved in. Then the hipsters. Then the Venators.”
“There goes the neighborhood,” Ara said, smirking at him. “Well, at least we’re here to lower the tone. Which place is yours?”
“Ours,” he corrected, and she didn’t protest. “At the end. Third floor. Just close enough so that fountain can keep us awake.”
The main set of double doors was tall, probably big enough to admit carriages when the house was built in the eighteenth century. Edon had the keys: they’d been waiting for him in a locker at the airport. No address – Kinsgley had given him that, and told him to memorize and destroy it. Just the keys and a hunting knife. Just the sort of a welcome gift Edon appreciated.
Inside the former driveway was a shadowy lobby, leading to a small courtyard of bike racks, a communal recycling center and a raised vegetable garden, tomato plants growing up pyramids of roped twigs. Edon glanced around the courtyard, taking in the fire escapes and back balconies, all the means of entry and escape. Ara lingered a few steps back, unwilling to leave the shadows. She wasn’t smiling anymore.
Edon looked at her, raising his eyebrows rather than speaking: had she seen or heard something? Ara gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Nothing to fight here – not yet, anyway.
A door on the right led to large sweeping stairs, curving around an old cage elevator. Edon hated those things. They reminded him of the kennels in hell, and whenever he was faced with one he always took the stairs. Ara didn’t even consider it: she loped up the stairs two at a time, casting suspicious looks up and down the stairwell. They were quiet movers, he noticed, despite the fact they were both wearing heavy boots. Always hunting, always hunted.
Their third floor apartment was at the front of the building, its wooden door heavy and dark. It creaked open, and Edon and Ara dropped their bags in the long, empty hallway. He pulled the hunting knife from the side pocket and sniffed. The air was close and dusty; the place smelled disused. The only other scent he could pick up was Ara’s. But better to check each room. The Nephilim had their ways.
Ara was right when she said they weren’t in Chinatown anymore. Compared with his bare-bones efficiency there, this Stockholm apartment was palatial in size. High ceilings, square rooms and tall windows that were swagged with heavy linen curtains. Some curtains in the ballroom-sized main room were drawn, casting much of the golden wood floor into dusty twilight. One corner of the room was consumed by a built-in porcelain-white tiled stove, its twin on the other side of the wall in the dining room. They wouldn’t be needing that in this weather, and Edon was relieved: it looked breakable and delicate, not to mention ludicrously old-fashioned.
Once they were sure the apartment was empty, Ara and Edon wandered the linked rooms in stunned silence. There was a grandeur to it but also a starkness. It looked even larger than it was because there was so little furniture – a long, low sofa in the living room, and in the dining room a mahogany table with elaborately carved legs and four gilt chairs. The gray painted dresser in the kitchen was entirely empty – no plates or glasses of any kind. And in the bedroom, just one bed made up with soft white sheets. A small double, Edon would call it. But right now it looked like a cloud from heaven. He wanted to get his boots off and flop onto that billowing bed.
“So, this is the only place to sleep?” Ara sounded hostile. Edon really didn’t get her. One minute she was dozing on his shoulder, like a loving, docile girlfriend; the next she was stomping around
this fairytale apartment looking petulant because she didn’t get her own room. Didn’t she want to sleep with him? Weren’t they an item?
Not a very appealing item right now, he had to admit, after so many hours traveling, and trudging across the city in sweaty boots.
Edon walked towards her, one hand extended.
“Come on, angel,” he crooned. “Let’s get some rest while we can. I might have to start working at any moment …”
“I thought you said we were always working,” Ara said. But she reached down to unlace her boots, which had to be a good sign. He wanted her to fall into bed with him, the way she did when she let her guard down for five minutes and admitted that she and Edon were a team – not just patrolling the streets, but in the privacy of an apartment like this one. However big its rooms, it felt silent and intimate just now. The perfect place for them to re-connect, emotionally and physically. Ara made things so difficult for herself. For someone who could enter and investigate people’s minds, she wasn’t too hot on knowing her own.
Ara kicked her boots away and wriggled her black jeans down from her hips. Her legs were white and all lean muscle. Even without her Venator blades, Edon knew she could fight anything – well, almost anything. Nephilim played dirty.
He pulled his shirt off and flung it onto the floor. Ara took a step closer, looking away, refusing to admit that she was as into this as he was. With the tip of one foot she picked up his shirt, crumpled on the ground, and kicked it further out of reach.
Now this was a game he liked. Edon swung for his dusty boots, lying on the ground between them, and kicked them towards the wall. The smallest of smiled played over Ara’s chiseled face. Suddenly she was the one reaching out, pulling Edon into her arms. Their faces were close together, breath hot, cheekbones knocking. He ran his fingers down the hard curve of her back and she arched under his touch, like a cat. A cat that was more feral than domestic, but she was letting him touch her. Was that a moan escaping her lips? Maybe Sweden wasn’t so bad after all.
Noise at the front door. A key turning in the lock. Edon staggered back from Ara. His knife. He had to get his knife out of his bag. Maybe if he’d traveled through time to get here rather than on a stupid commercial flight, he could have brought Ara’s Venator blades with them …
Wolf. Whoever was creaking open the heavy front door was another wolf. He could smell her.
“It’s OK,” he whispered to Ara. “It’s a wolf.”
Ara frowned at him. He knew what she was thinking – what if it was a wolf working for the other side? What if it was a hellhound?
But Edon would know that smell anywhere. It was embedded in his brain, his senses, his body.
It was Ahramin. Fierce and dangerous, the kind of wolf you wanted next to you in battle. And in bed.
Ahramin, his one-time lover.
“Hey!” a husky voice shouted down the hallway. “I can smell you from here, Marrok. In fact, I could smell you all the way up the stairs. Way to go masking your scent, idiot.”
Ara shot him a dark look – curious, alarmed, suspicious.
“So quit hiding from me,” the husky voice rasped. And there she was in the bedroom doorway, dressed in body-con yoga gear, her chestnut hair in a bouncing ponytail. Still a sleek beauty, tense and ready to pounce, after all these years. Something churned deep inside Edon. Of all the wolves in the world – and the underworld – he had to meet Ahramin again.
Her gray wolf-eyes narrowed.
“I’m Mina,” she told Ara, who stood speechless in her underwear and black tank. “Marrok’s new partner-in-crime. I’m guessing you’re a non-approved house guest. Vampire, maybe? Am I right?”
“Mina?” That was all Edon could manage. She was never “Mina” in the old days.
“Yeah. Get used to it. Don’t be all nostalgic for the past, Marrok.” Mina flashed her teeth at him. They looked dangerous – as dangerous as her smile. “Though I see you’ve moved on to the fallen now. A lovely little vampire girlfriend. Nice.”
“Before you talk any more shit, you should know that this is Ara Scott, and she’s a Venator,” Edon began, heat creeping up his neck. Ahramin – Mina – could always do this to him. Wind him up until he exploded.
Mina whistled, feigning surprise.
“Well, well. The famous Araminta Scott.” She gave Ara an ostentatious bow. “You are definitely not supposed to be here.”
“I’m on vacation,” Ara said, her voice flat. Her face was so closed-up that Edon couldn’t read her at all.
“Well, we’re not. And this bedroom seems kinda small for three.”
“You’re staying here as well?” Edon’s heart sank, or maybe it was in free-fall, dropping through his body so hard it was about to hit the floor.
“I doubt we’ll be in Stockholm long, Mr. Wolf.” Mina’s eyes glinted. She was enjoying this, the power over him, her surprise entry. Always a power game with Mina. “But yes, in the short term, it’s three’s company in this place. I guess there’s a sofa somewhere? For you, I mean. Us girls can bunk up together. Like a supernatural sorority.”
“I don’t think …” Ara began, her eyes flashing with anger. Ara wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, not even by someone important like Kingsley Martin. Certainly not a wolf.
“Hey! You’re not supposed to be here, remember?” Mina crossed her arms and leaned against the door jamb. “I think the old king of the underworld, or whoever he is, would love to find out you’re here. You’d be on Venator crosswalk duty for the rest of this lifetime, and maybe the next. So if I were you, I would be happy to get half a bed. Especially as the wolf you’ll get to share it with isn’t stinky and over-the-hill.”
Mina stared hard at Edon, and he couldn’t find anything to say. Everything had just got a whole lot more complicated, and part of him, if he had to admit it, found that very exciting indeed.
8 | Past Lives
He’d recognized her the moment he saw her in Mimi’s apartment. Catherine Denham – so that was her name in this life. Mimi had managed to keep the information from him, though he wasn’t sure how: usually he could see into his twin’s mind with ease, even when they were thousands of miles apart. But Mimi wasn’t Regent of the Coven for no reason: she was wily and mentally strong, able to block unwanted psychic intrusions. So she’d hatched this little plan alone, for reasons he didn’t yet understand. Maybe she thought “Catherine Denham” wouldn’t set anything ticking in his brain. Luckily, Jack had a long memory.
He walked through the south churchyard of Trinity Church, picking his way past stone graves dark with age, their inscriptions no longer legible. It was sentimental of him to come here, a vampire’s joke, in a way. He could just remember the first, much smaller Trinity Church, built on this spot at the very end of the seventeenth century. His incarnation then was as William White, and he was a very old man at the time. The New York Coven was in its formative years. Things didn’t seem any simpler then, but they were, he now understood. One thing was certain: New York City was much simpler then. Broadway was just a dirt road running to the harbor, and the towering banks of Wall Street didn’t cast a shadow on the churchyard.
Trinity was his mother’s name as well. Poor Trinity Force, never really loved by their father, Charles, after his bondmate rejected him. Theirs was a marriage of convenience – or for Trinity’s money, as all the Blue Bloods liked to whisper. She wasn’t much of a mother to Jack and Mimi, that was true: for too many years of their childhood, she was away on vacation or shopping trips. Mimi couldn’t forgive her, but maybe now, as Jack got a little older, and had children of his own, he saw things differently.
Charles had believed, to the core of his soul, that he and his bondmate were bound by blood for eternity – but he was wrong. Wrong about Gabrielle, the Uncorrupted. Known in this life as Allegra Van Alen, Schuyler’s mother.
After Allegra fell in love and eloped with her human familiar, Charles changed his name from Van Alen to Force. He wanted nothing more to do wit
h that family name, so it was ironic, Jack mused, that now the Force and Van Alen clans were united again through his own marriage to Schuyler. Ironic, too, that Jack had broken with Mimi, his own bondmate, to be with someone else. Love kept getting in the way of history, disrupting the path of the fallen. It made things messy, and maybe for Trinity Force it had meant a life of always being second-best in her own family.
Allegra Van Alen’s human familiar was Stephen Chase. Schuyler’s father. Finn’s father as well. Without him, Jack wouldn’t have Schuyler. But the world wouldn’t have to put up with Finn Chase either, Schuyler’s long-lost half-sister. A mortal who’d ended up, thanks to Oliver, as First lady of the Coven, the first time a human familiar had ever reached such lofty heights in the vampire world.
And what had Oliver’s brand-new-world dreams got them? Finn wanting much, much more than ceremonial power. Much, much more than Oliver’s besotted devotion. Finn wasn’t content to spend a life as first-lady arm candy, trying to ignore the sneers of the Blue Bloods, knowing she would always be seen as human and therefore second-rate. She wanted to be immortal too, even if it meant drinking silver poison and defecting to Lucifer’s army.
What a mess, Jack thought, resisting the urge to kick a gravestone. Now he and Schuyler had to give up everything they’d worked for over the past ten years, see their vineyard smolder, move their children to a city far from everything they knew.
And as if that wasn’t enough, Mimi hadn’t exactly hired the Mary Poppins they were hoping for.
Trinity’s doors were open, and inside it felt several degrees cooler. There was something about the stone arches and the ranks of wooden pews that always made Jack feel calm, as though the world was really an orderly and serene place. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows at the western end, dappling the aisle. A few people, alone or in pairs, sat praying or in silent contemplation. Near the altar, one scruffy backpacker, his bag propped next to him on the seat, was reading a book, the sun picking out his fair curly hair like a spotlight.
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