by Tracy Tappan
She didn’t wait to see what he’d exposed. She shot off the couch and slammed her hands into his chest, shoving him backward. “That’s enough!”
He staggered back two paces, caught his footing, then leapt at her.
She kicked out at him, aiming high for his testicles. A mistake.
Shọn hooked her heel with his palm and jerked upward.
She flipped off her feet and crashed onto her back.
Shọn jumped on top of her.
Her fangs shot angrily into her mouth. “No!” She lashed out with a clawed hand. Her nails caught his cheek, raking scratches across his flesh.
He growled. “I’m this close to punching you in the face, Luvera.” His upper lip peeled back from fully extruded fangs, long, white razors gleaming murderously in the lamplight. “You’ve already blood-claimed me. Why are you fighting finishing it?”
She grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and straight-armed him off her body. “And be obliged to you for feedings for the rest of my life?” she grated. “I’d rather die, you demonic piece of trash!”
“Brings a man tear to my eye, really it does.” Locking her body between his hard thighs, he seized the arm he’d sliced, his fingers like metal pincers around her wrist, and latched his mouth onto the cut, sucking greedily at her blood.
She screamed when a fang indented her skin. The idiot was going to bite her! She head-butted him in the nose, hearing the solid thump of bone on bone. Her eyes crossed and mini meteors streaked across her vision.
She heard Shọn grunt and felt him wobble.
She thrust her arm out to the side and her fingers found the leg of the standing bookshelf with the Swarovski swan on it. She wrenched hard, bringing it crashing down on top of them.
It knocked Shọn sideways.
She kicked the rest of the way free and scrambled to her feet, running for the door. Panic locked off her throat when she heard Shọn right behind her. He’d catch her before she made it outside! Her gaze zeroed in on the alarm button on the wall to the left of the doorjamb. Leaping through the air, she slapped her palm against the button just as Shọn caught her by the arm and jolted her backward.
His fingers gripping her shoulders to the bone, Shọn glared at the flashing yellow light: the community’s 911 system. At this very moment an emergency signal was being sent to the computer command center in the mansion. From there, the warriors on duty would be notified of trouble in her apartment.
“Dammit!” Shọn threw her to the floor and fumbled to fasten his pants.
She thrust to her feet again, tore open the door, and dove into the hallway, flinging herself so hard from her apartment that she crashed into the opposite wall. With a cry, she collapsed.
“Luvera!”
It was Dev! Her brother was heading down the corridor, his steely eyes leveled on her. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
“He’s trying to force me!” she yelled. “P-please help.”
Jaċken was coming down from the other end of the hallway, his brows low, one hand gripped around the hilt of a knife in his crisscrossed holster set.
“Who?” Dev demanded, rage firing in his eyes. “Nilan? Viorel?”
Shọn materialized in her apartment doorway, his chin down, his eyes black laminate.
“Shọn!” Dev called out. “Thank God.” He sidled forward another step. “Who’s in there with her, man?”
Jaċken understood first. He froze in place, his chin jerking as an expression of pain crossed his face.
Dev hesitated a step as his gaze narrowed in on the scratch marks on Shọn’s face. “Why, you little fuck!” He hurtled down the hallway and snatched up Shọn by the front of the shirt, hauling him forward into a brutal punch. With a bloodcurdling roar, Dev drove Shọn to the floor and hit him, again and again and again.
Sobbing, Luvera scuttled away as Shọn’s blood sprayed across her pants.
“Nichita!” Jaċken hauled Dev off Shọn. “Enough!”
Dev struggled to get back at the beating, the gleam in his silver eyes serrated to pure wrath.
Shọn sprawled motionless on the carpet, half-conscious and bleeding. He’d never raised a single hand to defend himself.
Chapter Thirty-nine
One week later: Topside, 7:32 a.m.
Marissa checked into her room at the Sheraton Hotel on Harbor Island Drive near the San Diego airport, and promptly threw up.
“Oh, God,” she moaned, planting a hand on the rim of the toilet seat and pushing herself to her feet. What was wrong with her? Was she having a weird withdrawal reaction from being away from Dev? She still didn’t know all of the ins and outs of being a Vârcolac mate, but maybe on some level it was just as difficult for her to be apart from Dev, as it was for him, even though she wasn’t biologically bonded to him. Because, really, she’d only been gone from the community for a couple of hours, and she already missed him. A lot.
In her defense, she was still a newlywed, and being married to Dev was great…not just regular great, but Tony the Tiger greeeeeeat. She and her new husband had made it past that rocky start with flying colors. Their mojo was really going when it came to making love…snuggling together, cooking together, going out to the movies or dinner—everything! And the thought of spending three nights away from him made her want to barf again.
And if she was feeling this bad off, how was he doing? Just a little over two weeks after the initial bond wasn’t all that long to expect a male Vârcolac to be fully Feng Shui about his female. Dev’s cells were completely through The Change, yes, but for a while his protective instincts would be prickly about being away from her. And it’d been a very bristly Dev who’d stood blocking her way to the elevator leading down to Ţărână’s garage. He’d looked about as moveable as a cement building with his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest and his brows set in a stern ridge.
“Dev, we’ve talked about this,” she’d said, trying for patience. “I’ve been planning to attend this chef seminar ever since I moved to Ţărână. You know that, and the Council agreed.”
Dev’s scowl deepened. “That was before all this shit went down with my sister. I can’t go topside with you now, Marissa. Luvera’s going to court tonight, and I need to be here for her. I’ve spent too much of my life not supporting her, and…” A tightness flashed through his jaw. “I think she tried to ask for my help one night at Garwald’s, but I didn’t listen to her. I’m not going to leave her in the lurch again.”
“I know, and that’s so great. I one hundred percent back you up on that, honey. But this seminar is really important to me.” She touched his arm. “You know you’d just hole up in the hotel room during the day, anyway.”
“But at least I’d be there in case something happened,” he insisted testily.
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
He ha’d. “The Om Rău know about you, Riss.”
She’d handled the news that there existed a demon race called Om Rău—some living up top, others underground—who also considered Dragon women like herself to be a hot commodity, with her usual moment of huh? followed pretty quickly by, crap, really? “I’m out of danger now that we’re mated.” One of the side benefits of being “marked” by her Vârcolac husband was that she could bear only his children, her “selective fertility” removing her from hot commodity status.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Dev countered with a narrowing of his eyes.
Yes, well…there seemed to be some vague question over whether or not the unique Om Rău-Fey heritage of the topside enemy could overcome a Vârcolac marking. But the bad guy in charge, Raymond Parthen, seemed intent on proving the accuracy of this breeding glitch with Tonĩ alone. So…
“I don’t want to cower in a corner over something that no one’s sure about, Dev. I’ve already promised never to leave the hotel.” No way did she want to be reunited with Mürk or, worse, Videön, either. “Try to remember that I lived topside for years on my own, okay?” She smiled and patted his bea
rded cheek.
So here she was, at a seminar she’d fought like the dickens to get to, and all she wanted was to go home.
She glanced at her watch, and, yikes. She needed to get her butt moving. She quickly brushed her teeth, threw on her apron, and rushed down to the hotel lobby. Checking in punctually at eight o’clock, she found an itinerary for the day’s classes and pasted a nametag on the breast of her apron. With time left over, she mingled with her colleagues at the morning coffee mixer. She saw friends Charlize and Lara, and waved. She knew about a quarter of the chefs here, but those two women were the only ones she considered friends. Thank you Dragon heritage for keeping everyone at a long arm’s length for all my years. Life among regular humans basically sucked. The thought prompted another wave of homesickness for Ţărână and Dev, her emotions jiggling her stomach in not a good way. She pressed a hand to her belly. How nice was it that she was going to be around food all day? If they cooked anything with fish or seafood, she’d definitely vomit again.
A soft, tinkling bell announced the beginning of the first session. She glanced at her itinerary and glumly moved with the rest of the crowd, her feet weighted with lead. What. Is. My. Problem? This seminar was prestigious, not just for anyone. She dang well needed to treat this like the privilege it was, not a chore.
Making her way to her assigned cook station, she introduced herself to her partner. They chatted for a bit about the teacher, legendary French chef Pomeroy Lefèbvre, but were interrupted by the arrival of the director of the seminar, a short, thin man in a bright red apron.
“Well, my gaydar’s going off,” her partner murmured in her ear. “How about yours?”
Marissa smiled vaguely. “I’m not crazy about his expression.” She fiddled with a wooden spoon. That was a bad news is coming face, if she’d ever seen one.
The director drew himself up. “Ladies and gentleman, I regret to inform you—”
“I knew it,” Marissa hissed.
“—that Monsieur Lefèbvre has been detained in Paris.”
A round of discontented murmurings circled the room.
“Peachy,” her partner sniped.
“Please.” The director held up a palm. “I assure you that we’ve found a superb substitute. The woman chose to replace him is a protégé of Monsieur Lefèbvre’s, having graduated from the prestigious Johnson and Wales University before studying a year in Paris.”
Marissa tightened her fist around her spoon, an uneasy suspicion slithering up her spine. Johnson and Wales University? It couldn’t be…
“Today’s expert chef is the granddaughter of the celebrated French vintner, Angelique Cuvier and—”
Marissa drew a painful breath.
“—has recently turned the critics on their ears with her innovative cuisine at San Diego’s newest French restaurant, Le Bistrot Angoulême.”
Marissa seized the counter of her cook station, feeling her face drain of color. Bile and horror inched up her throat.
“My fellow chefs, I give you”—the director gestured grandly toward a door at the front of the class—“Natalie Bonaventure.”
Marissa clutched her cell phone in unsteady hands, barely able to punch the number for a community transport into the keypad, her rapid breathing pushing her dangerously close to hyperventilating. Thank God no one else was in front of the hotel right now to bear witness to her steady decline into a fricking breakdown.
The phone rang seven times, then cut off. No answer again. Where the hell are you, Candace? The Traveler was supposed to have a long list of pickups and deliveries today, enough to keep her busy from the early morning hours into late this afternoon. The woman should still be topside!
Marissa tried again. She wanted to go home. Now. Who cared that all of her luggage was still upstairs in her hotel room. Her sister was teaching this seminar—her bitch of a sister!—while Marissa would play the student, once again squashed beneath her sister’s godlike superiority!
No, no, and no! Candace didn’t pick up. Dammit. Marissa scrolled through her phone book and found the community message line. She depressed the call button. Nothing. What the hell? There was always at least one functioning cable into Ţărână’s network.
“Marissa!” Footsteps rushed out of the Sheraton.
Marissa turned around. Natalie.
Her sister came to a breathless stop in front of her. “What are you doing? Are you leaving?”
“Yes, Natalie, I am.” Marissa punched Candace’s phone number into her cell again and stuck it to her ear. “You’ll excuse me if I’m not in the mood to spend the next three days steeped in your hatred.”
Natalie’s face stained red. “Don’t go,” she urged her softly. “I was hoping that…after class we could talk a bit.”
Marissa laughed. The sound was harsh and bitter. “What? Do you think it’d be just, oh, such a bang-up time to reminisce about how you’ve spent the better part of your life making me feel like a worthless piece of trash?” She tightened her hand around her cell phone, nearly crushing it.
Then it hit her. Here she was again, chasing down all of the insecurities her sister had planted in her over the years by coming to this seminar. She was already a damned great chef. Wasn’t she supposed to believe in herself now? What happened to all of the new confidence she’d found from her mother’s handmade cooking award? She shouldn’t be here!
“Marissa, please. I realize everything you just said is true, but…I’ve been going to therapy for a while now, trying to get my head together, and…” Natalie blinked hard. “Mom’s death rearranged my priorities, you know.”
“No, I don’t know.” Ring, ring, ring. Marissa gritted her teeth and cut the useless line. “You’ve never bothered to tell me anything about your life, Natalie, and certainly not what I did to you that was so fricking heinous.”
“It was…” Natalie’s throat flexed. “It was that Dad never touched you.”
“What are you talking about?” she snapped. “Of course, he touched me.”
“No. I don’t mean hugs and stuff.” A tear leaked from the corner of Natalie’s eye, and she swiped it away. “When I was ten and you were twelve, Dad…started molesting me.”
Marissa gave her sister an appalled look. Impossible that their father had done such a thing.
“I was so angry that he didn’t do it to you, too.” Natalie’s chin trembled. “I mean I know I should’ve been glad for you, but I just…I wanted to know: why only me?”
Marissa watched her sister struggle to make her confession, and her blood slowly turned to ice. When she was twelve years old, Marissa had almost drowned and Natalie hadn’t helped her, glaring from the pool’s edge with such hatred. Could…could this be true? Her stomach soured in disgust at the mere idea. But so much of Natalie’s behavior would make sense if she’d been molested. Made to feel weak and powerless by their father’s actions, Natalie had exploited Marissa’s weakness; her sister had been sexually abused, so she’d tried to get those high school boys to hurt Marissa the same way. Her sister had been violated, and had lashed out.
“Did Dad love you more than me?” Natalie asked. “Is that why? Did he think you were better than me?” Her face tightened into a resentful mask. “Well, I set out to prove that you weren’t better than me, Marissa.”
A vein in Marissa’s jaw pulsed. Whatever small seeds of sympathy had started to sprout for her sister withered and died. “So I’m not better than you, Natalie. Great. Congratulations. What exactly did you earn for yourself by proving that? A hateful relationship with your sister, that’s what.” More angry words bubbled up, but Marissa took a shaky breath and held them back. Regardless of her own resentments, her sister had been through much worse than a life spent feeling undermined. She needed to remember that. “Look, maybe Dad felt sorry for me because of my scoliosis and that’s why he didn’t hurt me.” She dialed her phone again. “But, frankly, I have no idea why.” Come on, Candace, pick up. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Natalie, I truly am, but
…I’m thrown for a loop by it right now. I don’t know what—”
A blue Chevy pulled up to the curb right in front of them.
Marissa startled and stepped back.
Two men hopped out, one tall, lean, and brown-haired, the other with the type of smooth dark skin that suggested Latin ancestry.
The taller white guy took note of the phone pressed to her ear. “Marissa Bonaventure?” He pulled out a badge. “I’m Detective John Waterson of the SDPD.”
Marissa cut the line of her cell, blinking several times. The police? “Um, yes?”
The detective smiled at her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that you’re listed as a missing person from a crime committed back in June, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
A missing person? Confusion stalled Marissa’s brain for a second. Oh, God, that’s right. The night Mürk and Tëer had kidnapped Marissa, her roommate, Lila, had called the police. But…how had they found her? Through the chef seminar? “Of course. What can I do for you?”
“Do you want to step inside and sit—?” He broke off as his eyes locked onto her nametag. “Excuse me, but I thought your last name was Bonaventure.”
“It is, well, was. Nichita’s my married name.”
Something changed in the detective’s expression; something that sent a flood of cold down Marissa’s spine. “That’s a very distinctive last name.”
“I suppose it is.” Her palms went damp. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem. Truth is”—the detective unlooped the handcuffs from his belt and came at her—“looks like today’s my lucky day.”
Chapter Forty
Two hours earlier: community of Ţărână, 5:30 p.m.
Alex was generally an anti-violence guy, a pacifist, as he’d told Hadley the day of the laser tag game. The last time he’d felt any kind of hostile compulsion was junior year of high school when Tonĩ had been a freshman. One day Alex had been innocently collecting books out of his locker when sophomore beefneck Brad Flannigan had come up behind him with a, “Yo, Grand Master Wizard, have you, like, seen the awesome set of jugs on your sister? You think maybe she’d be free this weekend for me to give her a pearl necklace?”