nightrise

by Nell Stark

  He paled at the magnitude of my order but only nodded. “One other thing,” I said as he turned to leave. “Tell McMahon I want to see her immediately.”

  Two years ago, Bridget McMahon, buy-side analyst for Goldman Sachs, had been out celebrating the magnitude of her bonus check when she had stumbled into the wrong club and been turned. Last month, I had hired her to head up the Bank of Mithras’s research department. I wanted the bank to move beyond its humble beginnings as a simple savings and loan operation, and Bridget’s guidance would be instrumental.

  After informing her that I needed a preliminary report on the status and operations of Solarium before my meeting with Helen tomorrow night, I dismissed her and turned to my latest project: raising enough capital to create Mithras Brokerage Services—a separate wing of the bank devoted to investment banking. Vampires whose lives spanned centuries shouldn’t, I argued to would-be investors, feel at the mercy of human investment strategies. By studying long-term market trends with Bridget, I had already begun to draw conclusions about how to most effectively invest my clients’ substantial funds for the long haul.

  Sunrise was just over two hours away when Kyle returned brandishing a flash drive. Within moments, I was looking at a photograph of Christopher Blaine, seeming every inch the corporate mogul turned slick politician as he addressed a large crowd at a charity benefit. Kyle ran me through the facts: his single mother, his Harvard education, his early positions within the business development branch of a now-defunct pharmaceutical company, his rapid ascent up the promotional ladder when his employer was bought out by Solarium. The New York Post had named Blaine one of the “most eligible bachelors” of last year, but otherwise, his personal life was a black box. Kyle had found vague rumors of a supermodel girlfriend, but the only available photographs of Blaine pictured him with his immediate family. Kyle was scrolling through them when I recognized one of the faces.

  “Stop!” Palms planted on my desk, I rose to my feet and leaned forward to scrutinize the face of a blond woman, probably in her mid-thirties, wearing a cap and gown. The stole around her neck indicated some kind of graduate degree. Blaine was the only other person in the picture; his hand rested on her shoulder.

  I recognized the woman because Balthasar Brenner was her father. She was one of over a dozen shifters whom Helen had imprisoned at Consortium Headquarters during the virus outbreak in August. I had never learned her name.

  “Who is that?”

  Kyle riffled through his notes. “Her name is Annabel Surrey. Blaine’s sister.”

  “Half-sister?”

  “I don’t know. He’s twelve years older than her, so that seems likely.”

  I sat and gestured for Kyle to do the same. “And you found no evidence that he’s a shifter?”

  Kyle looked startled. “No, but that wouldn’t exactly be a matter of public record.”

  “Is his mother alive?”

  “No. She died in a car accident two years ago.”

  I propped my feet on the desk and leaned back in my chair. I wouldn’t have pegged Balthasar Brenner as the kind of person to care about the half-sibling of one of his many whelps, but perhaps Annabel had persuaded him to invest in her brother’s company. Then again, the last time I’d spoken with Annabel, she had called her father a “megalomaniacal tyrant.” She could have been posturing, but her vehemence had seemed quite genuine.

  “Nice work,” I told Kyle. “I need to call Sebastian and then I’ll be home for the day.”

  Once he had left the room, I dialed Sebastian’s cell. When he didn’t pick up, I tried his office at Luna and was greeted by his secretary—a young werewolf who clearly had the hots for him and not-so-subtly disapproved of our marriage. That was probably why I liked her.

  “Hello, Christina.”

  “Ms. Darrow, Mr. Brenner has instructed me not to put you through to him today,” she said haughtily.

  I laughed. “Well, isn’t that mature? You tell him that when he’s done throwing a tantrum he should call me back. I have information about a person of interest.”

  “I’ll most certainly let him know.” She sounded like a stuck-up automaton, and I could practically see her expression of distaste simply at having to exchange words with me.

  “You have an excellent day, Christina,” I said, but she had already hung up.

  Perhaps I should have told her exactly how much her boss had enjoyed himself earlier this evening, but that would have been cruel, and I wasn’t given to schadenfreude. Emotional displays were self-indulgent. Expedience was my only governing principle now.

  *

  An hour later, I had just arrived home and was about to wade into my hot tub when a call came in from the concierge of my building. When he announced that Pritchard Darrow was there to see me, I scowled and retied my terrycloth robe.

  “Fine, let him up.”

  While I waited, I mixed a very strong martini. Civil conversation with the most arrogant of my cousins always required a drink. Pritchard was like a small splinter—irritating but not dangerous—and he’d been beneath my skin ever since I’d come out as a lesbian. After years of being on the receiving end of his gibes, insults, and practical jokes, I wanted nothing to do with him. But ever since I’d taken over Darrow Savings and Loan, he had been pestering me in a different way. I’d been staving off his requests for an appointment for several weeks now, and apparently he had decided to take matters into his own hands.

  Three months ago, my father had given Pritchard a nascent hedge fund like other uncles might give their favorite nephew season tickets. Pritchard’s braggadocio had tripled even as he immediately began to run the fund into the ground. Sloppy research led him to choose terrible investments that nearly always went south. The company was barely keeping its head above water, and I suspected he wanted some kind of a loan from me.

  “Oh, how the high-and-mighty hath fallen,” I muttered at the chime of the doorbell.

  Pritchard was one of those almost-handsome, ex-football players who wore an obviously expensive suit that failed to hide his growing gut. He blinked in consternation when I greeted him in just my robe, but dutifully followed me into the kitchen when I offered him a drink. Apparently, breakfast martinis were par for the course.

  “Fuck, it’s gloomy in here,” he said as he awkwardly perched on one of the bar stools. “How about cracking a curtain or something?”

  “I’d rather not.” Even the suggestion of sunlight sent a chill through me, but I carefully modulated my voice to mask my anxiety. “Headache.”

  He leered at me. “Rough night?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  When I handed over his martini—made with my third best gin—he swigged half of it down in one uncouth gulp. “So I’m glad I finally caught you. I have a proposition.”

  I waited for his pitch speech, struggling not to roll my eyes as he chugged the rest of the drink.

  “BlueFin has made some exciting investments recently, but they’re going to take a few years to really pay off. As a result of recent market downturns, we’re struggling at the moment.” He took a deep breath and looked me—his carpet-munching cousin—in the eyes. “I’d like you to consider coming on board.”

  I almost laughed in his face. He wanted a bailout but was couching it in terms of a stake. I pretended to ponder his request, when really I was trying to figure out whether I could pull off a takeover. It wasn’t easy to arrange a coup on a hedge fund, but it could be done. As far as I was concerned, why should I buy into BlueFin when I could simply buy it?

  “Send your proposal to my analyst,” I said, grabbing one of my business cards and writing Bridget’s name on the back. “She and I will look it over together.”

  Only when relief suffused Pritchard’s face did I realize just how anxious he’d been. BlueFin’s situation must be worse than I suspected.

  “I’ll do that right away, Val,” he said, already moving toward the door. “You take care. I’ll be in touch.”

>   When he let himself out, I wondered whether I was throwing off some kind of frightening predator vibe that made him want to keep his distance. Then again, maybe he was just worried about catching the gay. Or maybe he found me disconcertingly hot in only my bathrobe. God only knew. I was just glad to be rid of him.

  I sent Bridget a quick message telling her to expect Pritchard’s files, then untied my robe and let it fall where I stood. As I eased myself into the hot tub, I only noticed the sting of my wound as an afterthought. Even that small infusion of Sebastian’s blood had galvanized my healing process.

  I leaned back against the edge and submerged myself up to my chin, feeling the night’s tension slowly drain from my neck. Of course, if I had been able to drink from Alexa I would be whole by now. Feeding from Sebastian may have taken the edge off, but Alexa had always fully satisfied me.

  As I gazed at the shadowed ceiling, I wondered where she was right now, and whether she ever regretted her choice. My craving for her blood and her body had never diminished, but now, I was strong enough not to need her. The old Valentine had been weak and pitiful, desperate and needy. Afraid of her thirst—afraid that in letting Alexa see her need, she would drive her away.

  I felt only contempt for my old self. Now, I feared nothing. Now, my thirst had no power because it had no chains.

  Now, when I wanted something, I took it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I walked into Consortium headquarters the following evening, Giselle was sitting at the front desk. As I approached to say hello, I couldn’t help but appreciate her low-cut and nearly sheer blouse. She caught me looking.

  “Do you like it? I wore it for you.”

  “I’m willing to bet you say that to all your admirers.”

  She arched one thinly-plucked eyebrow. “Is that what you are? My admirer?”

  I flashed my sharpened teeth in a smile and walked toward the bank of elevators. When I reached Helen’s office, Constantine Bellande and Karma Rao were just leaving. Constantine’s eyes narrowed when he saw me, the muscles along his jaw line bunching ominously. The last time I’d been in his presence, before my split with Alexa, he had greeted me with cheek kisses and a handclasp. His changed demeanor was interesting. I knew he and Alexa had grown close, but I hadn’t realized that he felt so protective of her. Karma, on the other hand, showed no emotion—but that was itself indicative of her disapproval.

  “Hello, Valentine,” she said coolly.

  “Karma. Constantine. How is Malcolm?”

  “No change.” She brushed past me. “We’re running late to another appointment. If you’ll excuse us.”

  Unperturbed by their chilly reception, I passed through the open door of Helen’s antechamber to find her seated at her desk, framed by the glittering skyline of Long Island City. Unlike most of the windows in this building, Helen’s were not equipped with voluminous blackout curtains. Her windows had been painstakingly treated with a complex mixture of chemicals that not only blocked the sun’s UV rays, but also filtered the visible spectrum in certain ways. I didn’t fully understand the physics of it, but the end result was that Helen could sit in this office during the day. What I hadn’t realized until recently was that the window treatment alone did not give her that ability. Members of the Sunrunner clan, I had learned while researching them prior to my talks with Bai, possessed an increased resistance to the damaging effects of the sun.

  The sub-species of parasite that had transformed my circulatory system gave me a greater degree of strength and speed, but no such resistance. If I walked out into the sunlight tomorrow morning, I would develop gamma radiation burns within a matter of seconds and my internal organs would liquefy shortly thereafter. If I took a meeting in Helen’s office during broad daylight, on the other hand, I would be able to last for several minutes before developing severe sunburn and nausea.

  The Sunrunners’ increased resistance made them valuable ambassadors and spies, and they cultivated an air of superiority at being “evolutionarily superior.” But I gloried in the physical power and precision granted by my parasite and wouldn’t have traded those abilities away for the world.

  Helen embraced me lightly. “I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, gesturing for me to sit as she closed the door. In a double-breasted charcoal jacket and matching skirt, she was even more formally attired than usual. “I met with Tian’s delegation a few hours ago, and Bai informed me of your mutual success in closing a deal. He seemed particularly impressed with you.”

  In the not-so-distant past, a meeting with Helen Lambros—Master vampire of New York and head of the Order of Mithras—would have made me nervous. Now, I relaxed into the leather chair and crossed one leg over the other.

  “Was he more impressed by my financial proposal or my marksmanship?”

  Her smile twisted, and for one fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of the fiery rage that churned beneath her composed exterior. Balthasar Brenner’s guerilla tactics were the thorn in her side; in a matter of months, he had destabilized the alliance she had so carefully cultivated over decades. Unable to ferret out his location, all she could do was anticipate his attacks and react when they occurred. Such forced passivity had to rankle with her.

  “We are all relieved that you were able to neutralize last night’s threat so quickly,” she said. “Bai mentioned your injury. How is your arm?”

  I flexed my biceps and felt only a twinge. “Almost fully healed.”

  “Good.”

  Before she could steer the conversation to her reason for calling me in, I took the initiative. “Are you familiar with Christopher Blaine?”

  If the non sequitur confused her, she didn’t let on. “The human politician?”

  “That’s actually my question. Is he human, or a shifter?”

  Helen seemed genuinely taken aback, which was extraordinary. “Do you have a compelling reason to suspect that he is a Were?”

  I briefly summarized the information Sebastian had discovered about his father’s recent financial transactions. “And Blaine’s sister is one of Brenner’s children. She was among those interrogated last summer. Blaine is significantly older than her, so I suspect she’s a half-sister from after their mother was turned, but that’s still just a theory.”

  “Find the truth,” Helen said. “And keep an eye on Blaine. If you need Leon’s people, let him know.”

  Leon Summers was the head of her intelligence force. Even if I had wanted to involve him, I wouldn’t have. He had far too much on his plate right now. After Brenner had nearly succeeded in assassinating Malcolm, Helen’s safety had become even more critical. In conjunction with Devon Foster, Helen’s head of security, Summers had been spending every waking moment identifying and neutralizing threats while also trying to track down Brenner’s precise whereabouts.

  “I’m glad you brought this to my attention,” Helen continued, “but I invited you here to discuss another matter: your Missionary work.”

  “Oh?” I kept my tone casual but mentally prepared myself for a dressing-down. Helen didn’t use words like “invited” or “discuss” in a conversation with one of her underlings unless she was about to take them to task.

  “I don’t think I have to tell you, Valentine, just how important it is that your clan survive. Balthasar went to great lengths to eradicate the Missionary’s line, and it is imperative that we actively work to regain what we lost in the razing of Sybaris.”

  Her use of “we” made me want to laugh in her face. As both the Missionary and the blood prime—roles that had defaulted to me as the only surviving member of my clan—I was expected to go on some kind of crusade to turn as many humans as possible. Instead, I had been highly selective about whom I’d “converted” over the past few months.

  “Your clan is on the verge of extinction. We must choose strong and powerful targets for your efforts if we are to rebuild effectively.” She slid a sealed manila envelope toward me. “Enclosed are some recommendations.”

&n
bsp; I opened the envelope. Inside, a single sheet of paper contained over a dozen names and addresses. Many of them were my peers—the young, well-connected potential movers and shakers of the next generation. And suddenly, I saw this scene as it must have looked two years ago—my hulking predecessor sitting in this very chair, perusing Helen’s list of recommendations. My name had been on that list. I knew that now. My name and Olivia’s name.

  Once, I would have flown into a rage. Now, I forced myself to betray no emotion despite the thundering of my heart and the red haze that had fallen over my vision. In the months since I had become the Missionary, I had turned exactly two people: Kyle and Tonya, both of whom were humans who worked at Consortium headquarters and had routinely offered their blood as nourishment. Their most fervent wish had been to one day become vampires themselves, and I had obliged them. I had no intention of ever turning anyone who was unwilling.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” was all I said.

  Helen held my gaze silently, her eyes searching mine. She wouldn’t find any answers there. I had buried my fury deep. Perhaps she had preferred me when I was more volatile, more malleable, but I would never let her control me again.

  “Good.” She stood and I followed suit. “Take care of yourself, Valentine.”

  “And you.”

  The effort of reining in my temper made me restless, and my throat pulsed with a matching fire. Wanting to burn off some energy, I took the stairs all the way down to the lobby. When I emerged near the front desk, Giselle turned at the sound of the stairwell door.

  “Is something wrong with the elevators?”

  “No. I needed the exercise.”

  She looked me up and down, her gaze openly lascivious. “I don’t think so.”

  I laughed and, miraculously, the tension in my chest eased. “That’s not how I meant it.”

  “Oh?”

  She was a captivating sight; her golden hair shone in the lamplight, and her lustrous ruby lips were parted in anticipation of my reply. Lust joined the thirst that parched my mouth. I no longer had any reason to resist my own needs, and I was not going to let Helen dictate my choices. Giselle was not on Helen’s precious list, but tonight, she would join the ranks of the ageless if she so desired.