by Tracy Tappan
Pettrila peered covertly through her lashes at the garlands of garlic intertwined with the boughs of holly strung along the mantelpiece, then glanced at the large cross necklace which lay against Elisabeth’s snowy breast. Pettrila’s failure to cower before either had helped to keep the truth of her heritage safely hidden. But garlic and crosses? Lună şi steluţă, where did Kridener come up with such tripe? The fantastical stories would have been entertaining had they not proven so dangerous to her people.
Elisabeth set down her goblet and folded her hands in her lap. “Speaking of the Vârcolac. How goes your courtship with Ştefan Dragoş?”
Pettrila snapped her head up. “Goodness, my lady, how are those two subjects akin?”
Elisabeth leaned forward, her eyes bright with a sudden excitement. “Did you not know? Ştefan has taken over as leader of the Vârcolac Vânător.”
Pettrila felt her cheeks go numb as the blood drained from her face. She stared open-mouthed at the princess for two hard thumps of her heart before managing to lever her jaw back into place. The Vârcolac Vânător were organized bands of armed men who hunted and slaughtered her breed with frightening efficiency. Vampire hunters. They were fast becoming the heroes of the day.
Elisabeth tilted her chin. “Blitz und donnerwetter, Pettrila, you appear unwell of a sudden.” The princess’s face fell into a frown. “Does your affection for Ştefan wane? Don’t tell me you’ve taken a fancy for…that Grigore?” Her frown deepened. Elisabeth had put a great deal of matchmaking effort into Ştefan and Pettrila’s relationship, and she’d be dreadfully disappointed if wedding bells didn’t come of that.
Truth be told, Pettrila secretly harbored the same dream, all the while knowing it was unlikely to come to pass. Any future she and Ştefan could ever hope to have together was contingent upon Ştefan accepting who she was in truth, and if he was a Vârcolac Vânător that made his opinion of vampires painfully clear. A cold feeling caught in her throat as the last pieces of the cherished fantasy blew away like groats of wheat in the wind. Heartsick as she was, she couldn’t bring herself to hate Ştefan for it. Oddly, she loved him even more for undertaking this endeavor, as it epitomized the noble, brave character that had captured her very soul.
“Now don’t mishear me, Pettrila.” Elisabeth picked up her embroidery again, the small hoop in one hand and a needle in her other. “Grigore Nichita is a handsome enough man, to be sure, and he’s of the boyar class of nobles. He’s just so…intimidating, is he not? Especially those strange eyes of his.”
Intimidating, dangerous, uncouth and boorish at times, aye, but of impeccable bloodlines, like Elisabeth said—the Nichitas were some of the purest of the breed. Most important, though, Grigore was one of her own kind. He could understand her on a level that a human like Ştefan never could. Verily, the two men were opposites in every way: appearance, race, personality. Where Ştefan filled a room with a vibrant masculine energy, Grigore ripped the air out of any space he occupied. But then, one man was Vârcolac, and the other was not.
“I suppose,” Elisabeth exhaled in resignation, “if your interest truly lies with a man other than Ştefan, I can press myself to—”
“What is this I hear? By all that is holy, shall I be called upon to fight a duel?”
Pettrila turned her head in a sharp movement to look at the doorway, the pins in her bun stabbing the back of her neck.
Ştefan Dragoş lounged against the jamb, one broad shoulder braced against the towering bronze doors and his muscular arms folded across his wide chest. Eyes as blue as a summer sky crackled with a fierce heat, belying his relaxed pose. “Confess, my lady. Who’s this gammy toke I must vanquish?”
A shiver curled through Pettrila’s belly. The man was not best pleased. “No duels shall be necessary, Ştefan. You’re the only man who holds my regard.” She swept her lashes low. “Although I daresay the deer has no doubt given away too much to her pursuer.”
Elisabeth giggled.
Pettrila peeked at Ştefan, relieved to see his gaze had warmed, smile lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. In the next breath, she cursed herself. Confessing that she was moon-addled for this man wouldn’t help her to free herself of him when the time came. Bother, this very night she must set him aside. Her heart shrank at the thought of never seeing him again. Why did he have to be a blasted Vampire hunter?
“Well, then,” Ştefan drawled, “best I take full advantage of my little doe’s misstep.” Pushing off the doorframe, he came toward her, setting her aching heart aflutter. He cut such a dashing figure in his tschepken, this particular Romanian gentleman’s jacket of mauve velvet with intricate gold embroidery at the hem and cuff. The rest of his attire was just as urbane: a dark waistcoat, starched white shirt, and black cravat, where a ruby pin winked at her. Snug black trousers outlined the impressive musculature of his thighs, and shiny black boots encased him snugly from foot to knee. His long blond hair was tied back in a neat queue.
Passing beneath the elegant chandelier of Italian Murano glass, he stopped at her chair, his nearness creating a clamor in her chest and a distinct curling sensation in her toes. Not many gentlemen could claim both towering height and magnificence of form, but Ştefan was one of those few. His face was the embodiment of attractiveness, although for all his beauty, he didn’t lack masculinity. His features were cut into hard, sculpted angles, and the hint of ruthlessness tracing the line of his jaw warned that, as pretty as he might be, he was not a man to be trifled with.
Pettrila managed to pull a tight breath in just as he offered her his hand.
“Would you take a turn with me in the garden, my lady?”
“Heiligsblechle!” Elisabeth exclaimed. “’Tis full dark and cold as death’s hand out of doors.” The princess’s tone turned disapproving as she added, “And ’tis not meet for an unwedded woman to go about without a chaperone.”
Ştefan bestowed a smile of devastating charm on the princess. “By the cross, Highness, how can I steal a kiss from the Lady Pettrila with a chaperone dogging my every footstep?”
Elisabeth’s eyes flared for a moment, but then her romantic nature got the better of her and her lips tugged upward. “Wicked, ill-bred man,” she scolded in a teasing tone, “dummkopf.” She waved them off. “Go, then. But see that ’tis only a kiss you steal and no more, Ştefan Dragoş.”
He bowed low. “You have my solemn vow.”
The soaring turrets and conical towers of Peleş Castle rose majestically into the star-cast sky, the peaks of the Bucegi Mountains creating a serrated backdrop for the fairytale-like residence. A few finely spun clouds curled around the upmost towers of the castle like wispy fingers, and a crescent moon smiled from its bed atop the Carpathians, casting a bluish light over the thick layer of crystalline snow blanketing the landscape and weighting down tree boughs.
Pettrila clutched her fur-lined cloak closer under her chin. She and Ştefan strolled past a fountain lined with marble statues of lounging personages, then made their way between twin crouching lions into the garden of manicured hedgerows, everything shimmering with hoarfrost.
Ştefan suddenly side-stepped into her path and turned to face her.
She was forced to stop and peer up at him.
“God’s bones,” he breathed, “but I mislike it when you wear your hair pulled back like some stuffy matron. It suits you not.” He gently tugged a few strands of hair free by her ear, his hand grazing her cheek, then sifted the tresses through his fingers. Moonbeams sparkled off the glossy midnight locks, and his gaze darkened.
Against her will, a giddy anticipation leapt in her belly.
He shifted his fingertips to caress the soft edge of her jaw, his touch moving in a steady path toward her mouth. His eyes deepened to a darker shade of desire.
Pettrila swallowed painfully and pressed her lids closed, unable to bear the look in his eyes when she knew she couldn’t allow Ştefan to kiss her. No matter how much she wanted him to, no matter how much a kiss, if perm
itted to go too far, posed the threat of pain to an unbonded Vârcolac. No matter…she wanted his lips on hers.
She stepped away from him, calling on every ounce of discipline she owned to do so. “There’ll be no stealing a kiss this night, Ştefan. Nay, nor any other.”
“Indeed?” He arched his blond brows at her, an expression of curiosity rather than one of a man grievously cast down. “And pray tell me why not, my lady?”
Because I’m one of the monsters you hunt and kill. Her voice scraped in her dry throat. “Because we must part, dear Ştefan. I am most terribly sorry, but…but I must allow you to return to the war unencumbered by obligations of—”
“You’ve heard that I’m the leader of the Vârcolac Vânător, haven’t you?”
She stilled, a sudden cold seeping into her bones that was entirely more icy than the weather. Unconsciously, she took another step back from him, her nerves prickling. “Why should that matter to me?”
A cloud scudded across the sickle of moon, casting Ştefan’s features in shadow. It was only his voice that reached her, a deep, barrel sound from darkness. “I know that you’re a vampire, Pettrila.”
Her breath spilled out of her on a rush, her heart tolling frantically. “No, I…” Panic shriveled her voice down to no more than a small croak. “I-I—” By all the stars in heaven, how had he discovered it? She’d been so careful to conceal her true self!
He moved to grab her, a black glove stretching out of the shadows.
Primal terror roared up her spine and shut off her breathing. She whirled and ran, knowing only the animal instinct to escape. Before she could accelerate to full Vârcolac speed, a hand on her shoulder spun her back around.
She slipped in the snow, lurching into Ştefan’s arms. Teeth gritted, she moved to push him off, using her Vârcolac strength, but…couldn’t. His own strength was beyond human. She gave voice to a strangled cry. “Unhand me, Ştefan! Or I’ll…I’ll…” What? Scream, and bring the entire estate down on them so that Ştefan could expose her as a bloodsucking monster? Horribly, she began to weep.
“Oh, God, nay.” Ştefan pulled her into his embrace. “Don’t cry, sweetling. Please.”
She didn’t resist, just sagged against him, already depleted. She’d spent too many stress-filled months dodging rumors and sensational stories in her own homeland; she didn’t have the energy for it anymore, not with Ştefan. “Who are you?” she rasped out. “Truly?” A gusty breeze swirled her cloak around her ankles. Bare branches clacked around them like a dead man’s bones.
“No one who is against you, my love. I give you my oath on that.” He gently splayed one hand to the side of her cheek to hold her against his chest. “I took on leadership of the Vârcolac Vânător to protect you, Pettrila, don’t you see? To steer those unholy bastards onto false chases, if need be.”
She inhaled a ragged breath, trying to gather her scattered emotions. Ştefan felt so warm and strong, it was impossible not to calm under the hypnotic effects of his scent. He smelled like a gentleman’s club, of cigars and brandy, faro cards and expensive cologne. And him, sweet, seductive blood, the aroma seeping into her flesh like opium smoke and stirring her belly with need. She drew another deep breath and nuzzled the front of his jacket.
He squeezed her tighter, as if he sought to pull her within his body and protect her there. “There’s much danger afoot for your people right now, Pettrila, events that even I cannot stop. The hunters are planning a massive, coordinated attack. In the month next, every faction of Vârcolac Vânător in every county will strike at once, annihilating your breed in a single sweep.”
Jolting back in his arms, she gaped up at him. The clouds had parted, and moonlight bathed Ştefan’s face, revealing a stricken expression.
“You must abandon Romania,” he told her. “Every Vârcolac must. For all time.”
“But…this is our home.”
He gave his head a grim shake. “No more.”
There was no guile in his expression; he was telling the truth. She pushed the rest of the way out of his embrace and turned away from him, her chin drooping low, tears brimming again. “’Tis so unjust,” she said in a small, quiet voice. “We’re not monsters.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, sweetling.”
She swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and drew a bolstering breath. “What are we to do? How shall we escape this massacre?”
“I’m going to help you, my love, don’t fret. I’ve called in favors owed to me by some English privateers, arranging for a fleet of six ships to meet us at the Port of Constanţa in two weeks’ time. We’ll evacuate you and your people, then.”
She sliced a look at him, brows raised. “Privateers owe you?”
A smile worked one corner of his mouth. “My younger years were spent in a somewhat more…adventuresome manner than now.” He tilted her chin up on the edge of his hand. “I need your help to see this through, however. I cannot access every Vârcolac enclave to pass the word.”
“Why would you do this, Ştefan? You risk a great deal by helping my people—your very life.” Once again the question rose: who are you?
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his body again. “Because I love you.” He bent his head, his breath warm on her ear as he spoke. “’Tis my greatest desire to run off to England with you, little doe, and marry you.”
She laughed, the sound thick with emotion. “Marry a vampire? I think not.” No one but a man of her own race would ever want to wed her, for any child she bore him would spring from her loins with a blood-need. She stepped out of Ştefan’s embrace and turned her face to the sky, gazing at the diamond bright stars. A clump of snow shivered off a sagging pine branch and whispered to the earth. She wouldn’t allow herself to succumb to feelings of hope and love.
“Aye.” He turned her to face him. “I myself am Dracul.”
She drew her brows together. “A Dragon? You’re a…Mixed-blood Vârcolac?” Impossible. She’d already guessed he wasn’t fully human, but that she would’ve sensed on him.
“A Dragon human,” he corrected.
“Stuff! No such creature exists.”
He chuckled, his eyes dancing. “One stands before you.”
She passed a critical look over him. He did own the ethereal beauty of the Dragon line, eyes of piercing blue, unnatural strength. And the scent of his blood was unusually delectable. Lună şi steluţă, perhaps she should’ve guessed it heretofore, but who the devil knew a Dragon human existed?
“So what say you, my lady? Do you let me play the gallant and rescue you and your kind? Do you agree to be my wife? By God, ’tis ill-bred to keep a man waiting so.”
She traced his precious face with her eyes, moonlight bringing into sharp relief the handsome angles and planes. The thought of leaving her beloved Transylvania was a knife in her soul, but beginning a new life with a man she so deeply loved was a powerful solace, indeed. And what choice did she have? Stay behind and be slaughtered? She stepped up to Ştefan.
A roguish smile curved his lips, and her heart melted.
“I say,” she murmured, “that I believe ’tis time for you to steal that kiss, Ştefan.” She encircled his neck with her arms, letting all the love that warmed her show in her eyes. Thank you, stars above, for gifting me with this man. “’Tis what a future husband should do, is it not?”
Chapter Eighteen
Present: Topside, 7:39 p.m.
John Waterson gave the house door a solid knock, then waited, dragging on his cigarette—which was actually tonight’s dinner. Some weird addendum to his illness made it impossible for him to stomach anything after four o’clock other than caffeine and nicotine, which, of course, made his feeling-like-shit state degenerate into even worse shit.
John’s partner, Pablo, glanced over his shoulder at the driveway. “Her car’s here.”
“She’s home.” John knocked again, harder. “Police,” he called out. “Please, open the door, Miss Mawbry.”
A second later, the front door edged open and a wary eye peeked out. “Y-yes?” the woman’s voice quavered. “May I help you?”
John turned his head aside and exhaled a blast of cigarette smoke into the night. Well, damn. Body language like that pretty much screamed “woman who’d been victimized.” Which…of course she had. Stupid of him to have held out hope that this woman’s abductors had just snatched her for money. He’d been a cop too many years now to mess with things like optimism. “Kendra Mawbry?” he asked politely. “I’m Detective John Waterson of the San Diego Police Department.” He tucked his cigarette into one corner of his mouth as he pulled his badge from his breast pocket and flipped it open, holding it up to the crack in the door. “And this is Detective Pablo Ramirez. We’d like to have a word with you.”
The eye widened. “Why? Is something wrong?”
Is something…? Hell, as ridiculous questions went, that one ranked high. “Well, yes, Miss Mawbry. Two nights ago, we were called here to your home to investigate your abduction. That usually constitutes a problem.”
“O-oh. Well, I’m back now.”
He tucked his badge away. So she was, the first of any of their seven missing women ever to return home. Thank God her concerned neighbors in this quaint town of Cardiff-by-the-Sea had thought to call and report Kendra’s return. This could be just the break John needed.
In nearly five months of investigating seven disappearances—three women from two nights ago, another a day after that, two others taken two months ago in April, and then the original first in January—neither he nor Pablo had come up with anything besides a bunch of dead ends. They had some general information about the cases, like the perps always had black hair, black flame tattoos, and very dark, nearly black eyes, the weirdness factor was high at each scene—hence the involvement of the Occult Crimes Unit—and the victims’ stats were similar; all of the abducted women had been single, blonde and beautiful, ages ranging from twenty to thirty-five. Not much to go on in California, birthplace of the hot blonde. The description could fit thousands.