by Nell Stark
A low hum in my ears, a rush of heat along my spine. My panther was almost upon me, but wanting to see the flower bloom, I held her off as long as I could. I felt the moon spring free even as my pupils registered the increase in light—and in that last instant of total lucidity, I watched the Tear of Isis rise and unfold from the earth as though it were a production of time-lapse photography.
The hunger overwhelmed me as my paws found purchase on the shale, but I turned away from the two humans in the clearing and scented down the mountain. I ran toward the lake, effortlessly leaping from boulders to outcroppings, and paused only when I scented prey. Something canine. Sebastian’s features flashed before my mind’s eye, and I growled. Yes, I was more than ready to hunt something canine.
I began to track the creature, quickly at first, then more slowly as the scent grew fresher. When I crested a slight rise overlooking the lakeshore, I caught sight of my prey: a small fox that had descended to the lake for water. I approached it as quietly as I could, belly brushing the smooth stones. Only when my crawl scattered an unstable mound of pebbles did the fox show any sign of alarm. In another instant, the chase was on; it darted along the coastline before making a break for the cover of foliage beyond. I unleashed the full power of my sprint and was on top of my prey within moments. With one toss of my head, I broke its neck and then gorged myself on its carcass.
The hunger receded just enough for clarity to return. My feline instincts urged me to make another kill—to satiate the dull throb in my belly—but now I was capable of fully asserting my will. I had to get back to Solana and Miguel.
I leapt from rock to rock, balancing myself easily despite the precipitous climb. For several minutes, I gloried in the power of this body—so swift, so strong, so keenly attuned to the natural world. The breeze carried unfamiliar scents I yearned to discover, and the unblinking moon urged me to the quest. When I finally slipped into the clearing, it was with a sense of near-disappointment. Until I caught the aroma of the flower.
Its scent carried a delicate sweetness, warm and comforting. Almost, I imagined, the way light might smell. Solana and Miguel looked wary as I approached, but I paid them no mind. As I crept closer to the flower, its fragrance enveloped me and a rumbling purr rose from my throat. The petals were an indefinable shade between gold and white, and I wanted to touch them—to feel whether their texture was as soft as it appeared.
I let that urge carry me into my shift until I was crouched before the flower on two legs instead of four. Gently, I brushed one of its petals with my index finger. As smooth as satin and soft as cashmere.
“It’s heavenly,” I breathed, surprising myself at the adjective. Valentine was the one given to hyperbole, not me.
“Perhaps.” Solana seemed to have seriously considered the notion that the flower had a divine origin. “It is certainly exquisite to every human sense.”
Once I had dressed, I turned to Miguel. “I’m ready. How do we do this?”
Solana stepped forward and rolled up my left sleeve past the elbow while he dug a wide circle around the flower with the trowel. “He will plant the root here,” she said, tracing her finger along the long, blue vein that ran along the length of my forearm.
I nodded, fighting back a surge of apprehension by focusing on my breathing pattern in an exercise Constantine had taught me over the summer. By the time Miguel beckoned to me, I felt calm again. Mostly. He looked at me as he spoke, and I waited for Solana’s translation.
“Miguel is going to make the incision and collect some of your blood to aid in transplanting the root.”
“Fine.” I had shed blood for Valentine almost every day when we had been together; a few more drops shouldn’t matter. But my panther protested otherwise. She had come to understand and accept Val’s bite as an expression of possessiveness—as an assertion of her rightful claim as our mate. Miguel’s knife, on the other hand, was very clearly a threat.
He gestured for me to kneel on the ground across from him just outside the circle he had made around the flower. He set an open jar carefully on the ground, and his grasp was gentle as he positioned my arm above it. With the knife poised against my skin, his eyes met mine. I nodded.
The knife scored my flesh cleanly, opening a two-inch gash parallel to my wrist. My panther surged forward at the searing pain, and I held her back with all my might as Miguel turned my arm so the dark blood could drip into the jar. I kept my breathing slow and steady despite the feline thrashing wildly behind my eyes. The moon called to her still, and she craved the use of her claws and teeth against this danger.
To distract myself and her, I focused on following Miguel’s every movement. Even as my blood continued to trickle into the jar, he plunged his trowel into the ground with one hand while grasping the flower’s stem with the other. It came up quickly, as though its hold on this world was tenuous at best. The dry earth of the mountain dislodged easily from the shallow root system, the circumference of which was barely as large as a half dollar coin. With one blow of the knife, he stripped the stem from the roots and plunged the latter into the bloodied jar.
The gash had already begun to heal; I could feel and even see my skin knitting back together hundreds of times faster than a human’s would have done. After setting aside the stem and petals, Miguel lifted the dripping root from the jar and ruthlessly pushed it between the lips of my wound. I clenched my teeth against a scream at the foreign invasion, and my vision wavered as the panther furiously pushed for control.
But then Solana’s arms came around my waist, and her cool cheek pressed against mine, and she whispered soothing words into my ear while Miguel held the incision closed. Gradually, the panther’s ferocity subsided until her discontent was only a background murmur, like the dull throb of my scar. It was a thick raised line, hot to the touch, at the halfway point between my elbow and wrist. The sole blemish on my body, all others having been purged in the conflagration of my shift.
“M-my God,” I stammered suddenly. “I can feel it. It—it’s moving.” In horrified fascination, I stared down at the writhing skin of my arm, comforted only by the fact that I could still transform if necessary.
“That’s a good sign.” Solana released me and bent to lift the light pack I had carried up the mountain. She briefly conferred with Miguel. “The movement likely means that it is settling—that it has accepted your blood as nourishment.”
In awe, I watched until the rippling motion had stopped. My entire body felt like an active fault line on the brink of slippage. I had to keep my eye on the prize; by this time tomorrow, I would be back in New York. Perhaps even in the same room as Valentine. Nothing would stand in my way.
“We should go,” I said.
Miguel had already gathered up his supplies, leaving only a dark circle of recently upturned earth behind him. Solana carried my pack and her own canteen. There was nothing left for me to do than lead the way down the mountain.
Soon, I would be in Solana’s car, where I could rest until we reached Fiambala. From there, we would fly to Buenos Aires and then on to New York. New York, New York—the syllables hummed in my ears. Valentine would not be difficult to find. For any other woman, she might be difficult to seduce.
But Val had always been defenseless against me. And I was counting on precisely that to save her.
valentine
Chapter Ten
The chamber felt like the prow of a buried ship jutting out into subterranean darkness. From my seat at the head of the conference table, I looked down at the mass of bodies writhing in time to a beat only they could hear. The soundproofing of this room, poised three full stories above the dance floor, was complete. As was its opacity—while I could observe the crowd below in exquisite detail, the glass windows and floor of my sanctuary were mirrored so that patrons saw only distorted reflections of themselves.
Of all the many purchases I’d made over the past few months, this club was the crown jewel. I had named it Tartarus—the Hell of the Greeks, bu
t to me it was a heaven. Built into an abandoned subway shaft set deep below Gracie Mansion, the residence of New York City’s oblivious mayor, Tartarus existed far beyond the reach of the sun. It was both my fortress and my oubliette. Here in my inner sanctum, I entertained business partners and culled human prey from the crowd below.
But tonight, the woman of my choice was not a human. She had caught my eye from the moment of her entrance. Red hair flowed down her back like spun copper, and she moved with feline power and grace that belied her animal half. My throat pulsed greedily. Weres did not usually offer their blood because most of them didn’t have enough self-control to overrule the objections of their beasts. Perhaps this one was different. She had set foot in Tartarus, after all, and most shifters avoided this place like the plague. Here in my underworld, they tended to feel claustrophobic and disconnected from the elements. Unless, of course, they craved the experience that only my kind could give them.
“Everything appears to be in order.” The vampire seated to my right extracted a fountain pen from his jacket pocket and signed the contract he had been perusing for the past several minutes.
I exhaled softly. The endorsement of my bank by the Sunrunners, the largest and most powerful of the seven vampire clans, was no small accomplishment. I stood, crossed to the bar, and poured two glasses of Armagnac.
“I appreciate your mistress’s business, Bai.”
His grin was sharp. “You say that now. She will make you work for it.”
I saluted him with my glass. “I’m not afraid of work.”
He moved to the lush divan against the back wall and sat, casting his arms out wide as though to embrace the masses below. “Oh? What is it that you fear then, Valentine?”
I sipped at the rich liquid and regarded him impassively. He had been trying to ferret out personal information all night, doubtless at the behest of his mistress. Tian, blood prime of the Sunrunners, was very old and very cunning, but she was also a recluse. Even Helen, who presided over the Order of Mithras and was a Sunrunner herself, had never met Tian.
“I fear nothing.”
He cocked his head. “Not even Balthasar Brenner?”
I laughed. “Brenner is a megalomaniac.”
“Who razed Sybaris to the ground. That, at least, must command your respect.”
I watched the redhead reject the attentions of a tall, dark-haired man. She sipped at her drink, then turned her face up as though she could sense my scrutiny. I wondered whether the gravity-defying architecture of my sanctuary impressed her, or whether she was too experienced to feel awe any longer.
“Not especially,” I said. “Valois should never have made his clan so ripe for the pickings.”
Bai let out a low whistle. “You’ve just gravely insulted your predecessor.”
“He’s dead. Maybe he deserves it.”
Bai fell silent, and I wondered what he would report back about me to Tian. He probably considered my bad-mouthing the former blood prime of the clan of the Missionary to be in bad taste, but I doubted he had any idea how little I actually cared about my affiliation. My status within the vampire community was just one of many tools at my disposal and nothing more.
“Those with nothing to fear have nothing to lose,” was all he said.
At his words, the image of Alexa flashed across my mind’s eye and an echo of her incomparable taste tickled the back of my throat. I swallowed convulsively, but the sensation was gone as quickly as it had come. Suddenly piqued, I threw back the rest of my glass in one burning gulp. Alexa was in South America somewhere right now with Olivia Wentworth Lloyd. My operatives had been unable to determine the reason for their trip, and they had reported that Alexa and Olivia’s relationship remained platonic. Still, the thought of them together agitated me. I hadn’t yet decided what—if anything—to do upon their return.
Across the room, the two black and tan Doberman pinschers flanking the door suddenly rose to their feet. They did not bark or growl but stood at the ready, ears flicking as they awaited my command.
I turned toward Bai, who was watching them curiously. “We have a visitor.” When my phone buzzed, I connected the call. “Darrow.”
“Courier for you, Missionary,” said my secretary. “From Consortium Headquarters.”
“Who is it?” In the past few months, I had lived through several assassination attempts. While I would never let Brenner or his cronies push me to paranoia, I’d learned to be cautious.
“Her name is Giselle.”
I smiled. Giselle was one of the human receptionists at Headquarters, and also, I suspected, one of Helen’s spies. Helen had sent her to me once in the early days just after I’d turned, ostensibly as an offering of sustenance. Giselle had been a temptation, but at the time, I had rejected her, preferring instead to bridle my thirst and drink only from Alexa.
At the sound of the chime, I moved toward the door. “Stand down,” I told the dogs, and they immediately settled back onto the floor—still attentive, but no longer menacing. I pressed a button on the wall panel, and the door slid aside with a soft hiss to reveal the epitome of conventional beauty. Tall, blonde, and painfully slender, Giselle stood outside the door in a low-cut black dress that hugged her body like a second skin. A silver fur coat was slung over one arm, and in her other hand, she held a manila envelope. Her eyes darkened as she took in my appearance—charcoal slacks and a crimson tuxedo shirt, its sleeves fastened with golden teardrop cuff links.
Her painted lips curved in a sensuous smile. “Hello, Valentine.”
“Giselle.” When I reached for the envelope, she made certain to brush her fingers over mine as she relinquished it. Flames flared in my throat. I had yet to taste her, and on a different evening, when such an intriguing quarry did not await me below, I might have indulged.
I sliced open the envelope and unfolded the single bone-colored sheet of paper within. It was watermarked with the crest of the Sunrunners and embossed with Helen’s personal sigil. The letter requested my presence in Helen’s office for a brief meeting tomorrow evening. The agenda was unspecified, and I could think of several possibilities. Refusal to join her, however, was unthinkable. Even now, any “request” of Helen’s was nothing more than a polite demand.
When I looked up, Giselle was watching me, one thin eyebrow arched. “Ms. Lambros asked me to wait for your reply.”
“Tell Helen I’ll be delighted to accept her invitation,” I said, injecting the words with a sarcastic joviality. Giselle’s laugh was a pleasant sound, low and rich. “And please feel free to have a drink downstairs. On the house.”
“Sadly, it’s all work and no play for me tonight.” She turned, granting me a view of the smooth, pale skin of her back and the enticing flare of her ass, then looked over her shoulder. “But come and find me some other time.”
I watched her sashay down the corridor, high heels clicking provocatively. From behind me, I caught the sound of Bai’s slow exhale. “If you want her, I’ll call her back.”
He joined me in front of the door. “No. I was merely appreciating.”
The planes of his face were sharper than they’d been a moment ago, as if some internal drawstring had tightened. “Are you thirsty, Bai?”
“Always.”
I swept my arm through the air, indicating the crush of humanity in the pit beneath our feet. “Then let us quench that thirst.”
*
The private elevator from my quarters to the dance floor descended along a lattice of external cables, its walls reflecting the multicolored spotlights of the club like a prismatic jewel. When the doors finally opened, every head was turned toward us. I ignored all of them but one.
The shifter wore a dark, low-cut blouse with long, ruffled sleeves. Slacks of matching hue melded to her slender thighs. She smiled as I approached—the smile of a confident woman comfortable in the presence of power. I sensed no anxiety from her, which I found truly remarkable under the circumstances. Even Sebastian, on the rare occasion when he
joined me here, could never quite curb his instinctual discomfort at being caged so far underground.
I stopped just before our bodies could touch. She was on my turf, but she too was a predator. This would be a more subtle dance than usual.
“Let me get you another drink,” I said.
“I’d like that.”
Her words were accented lightly; French, I thought. I gestured for her to follow and slipped through the crowd to one of the gates in the bar. When the staff opened it for me, surprise momentarily crossed the elegant planes of her face.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I assembled ingredients onto the black marble surface.
“Marcelle.”
I watched her watch my hands as I poured first absinthe, then gin, then simple syrup over ice. Lemon juice and an egg white followed. I shook the mix harder than a human could have, and when I strained it into a chilled goblet, the cocktail frothed merrily.
“A Parisian Sour.”
She sipped once, then again. “Exquisite. Thank you.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, and my gaze was drawn to blue cord of her jugular pulsing just beneath the skin. Would she taste anything like Alexa? No one had come close so far, but I had yet to sample another cat-Were. Anticipation rose in me, a storm brewing just beyond the horizon.
“Do you tend bar often?” Marcelle asked as I returned to her side.
“Only when inspired.” I wanted to close the inches between our bodies but forced myself to remain aloof. To betray the depth of my thirst would grant her more power than I was willing to give. “Tell me what brings you here tonight.”
“You.”
Her answer wasn’t surprising; many of the club’s patrons were trying to attract my attention. The others just wanted a good party. “And am I what you expected?”
She bridged the gap between us and plucked at the collar of my shirt with her free hand. “I haven’t decided yet.”