The powerful vampire sounded frightened, which alarmed Luca even more. Death. Vampires lived with death, but some clung to their new version of life with an almost panicked intensity. Others, after living for so many years, actually yearned for an end and would choose to die, but most didn’t. Hector enjoyed life, even after all his years, but he wasn’t afraid of death. What he feared was something bigger: the collapse of the wall of ignorance that protected the vampires from the humans.
Luca reached his cottage and began packing, making phone calls and arrangements of his own as he gathered what he needed. If Hector felt death was coming for them, as he’d said, then their world was in great danger and uncertainty.
Luca had many strengths and powers; as a rare blood born, conceived and born to a vampire mother and father, he was much stronger than those who’d been turned to the life. Prophesy, however, wasn’t one of those powers. Despite the surety in his tone, Hector’s gift of prophecy was relatively mild, and while Luca certainly believed Hector’s prediction, he also knew there was just as much that Hector didn’t see.
He’d have liked more time in Scotland, but as he prepared for the trip he felt his heartbeat increasing in anticipation for what was to come. If there was a huge battle, well, he hadn’t been in a proper battle in a very long time.
Washington, D.C.
Chloe Fallon had just drifted off to sleep when the image popped into her subconscious: a long, thick, blond braid hanging right in front of her face. That was all, just a braid, but so real she felt as if she could reach out and touch it. The shade of blond was darker and more golden than her own, and it seemed to be streaked with several shades. Had to be a natural color, her dreaming mind thought; it would take forever for a hairdresser to work all those different colors in.
She started awake, absurdly surprised to find herself alone in her own bed. That was the weird thing—one of the weird things, anyway. She didn’t feel as if she was truly alone. She almost felt as if all she had to do was roll over and she’d find the person attached to the braid lying there beside her. Unable to stop herself, she lifted her head to take a quick glance at the other pillow. Nope, no one there. Good. She had the bed to herself, as usual.
She flopped over on her back and stared at the dark ceiling. Of all things to dream about … a braid. She kept having the same dream, over and over, about a damn braid. Maybe she had some deep-seated desire to be a hairdresser, though she didn’t think so. She didn’t even like spending much time on her own hair, which was why she got the most maintenance-free cut she could, short of shaving her head. So what did it mean that she kept dreaming about a braid? There had to be a person attached to the hank of hair, but she’d never seen a face. She didn’t even know for sure if the braid belonged to a man or a woman. Her first thought had been “woman,” since long hair wasn’t exactly in fashion for men, but she got a sense of power when she was in the presence of the braid. It was definitely a strange thing to be obsessing over.
The braid dream had been coming for several weeks now. At first she’d decided stress was the cause. Her job and college classes were both demanding. She enjoyed them, but they didn’t leave much time for a social life. Relaxation, laughter, fun … she’d had to put them all aside, but now she was out of college for the summer and thought a break would cure all her ills. Not.
It didn’t make sense. All she had to worry about right now was her job—assistant manager of an upscale restaurant in Georgetown—and her parents’ planned visit at the end of August. She had to get the guest room in order before they arrived; thankfully she had a couple of months to get ready. That spare room was presently a cluttered storage space, but it would only take a few hours to turn it into a decent guest room. Okay, it would take longer than that, but it was doable.
Yes, she was obsessing a little over the pending visit. What sane, single woman of a certain age didn’t obsess when her parents, who couldn’t understand why their only daughter wanted to live so far away, came to visit? Her mother couldn’t quite pull herself out of her protective mode, even though Chloe was nearing thirty and was determined to live a normal life despite having an aortic aneurysm. The way she saw it, the aneurysm was small and stable, and might never change or grow to a dangerous size. The way her mother saw it, however, was that Chloe had a ticking time bomb in her chest and could die at any moment. Finding a balance between those two viewpoints wasn’t easy, though Chloe suspected that, if their positions were reversed, she’d feel exactly the same as her mother did.
She growled at the ceiling, disgruntled at being awake and stressing over something that wouldn’t happen for a couple of months. She loved her parents. They loved her. She could handle being coddled for a few days.
But, dammit, the latest encounter with the ownerless braid had left her wide awake. Sighing, Chloe rolled out of bed and headed for the kitchen. A glass of milk would help; she’d rather have hot chocolate, but chocolate had caffeine, so she’d settle for the milk. She could sleep late in the morning. She could sleep as late as she wanted, because she worked the evening shift at the restaurant.
After pouring herself some milk, she leaned against the kitchen cabinet while she drank, and stared at her blurry reflection in the window of the microwave. Huh. Maybe there was a little bed-head going on there, which wasn’t fair considering she’d been in bed maybe fifteen minutes, tops. She wondered how she’d look with really long hair, like that braid. She kept her hair just long enough that she could pull it back, sleek and neat, to keep it out of her way while she worked. Right now she just looked kind of mussed and messy, in soft, gray cotton shorts and a matching sleeveless tee, but what kept pulling her attention was her own baby soft, blond hair. Dammit, forget about the hair!
Impatient with the dream and with hair in general, she moved so she couldn’t see her reflection in the microwave and distracted herself by looking around for things she needed to do before her parents came to visit. All in all, she was very happy with what she saw. Her rental house was small, but she loved it. A friend of a friend had moved to California, but hadn’t been willing to let go of the little gem, though property values in the district were so high surely there would have been a hefty profit in selling.
Still, she couldn’t blame them. The house was well-maintained and the landscaping was great. It was the perfect size for her: two bedrooms, two baths, a decent-sized living room, and a kitchen. It was practically within spitting distance of a Metro station. What else did a single woman need?
The kitchen was square and well-equipped, and had been recently updated. Chloe liked to cook when she had the time, so a decent kitchen was a necessity. She kept hoping her landlords would decide the move to California was permanent and they’d offer to sell her the house—she’d told them she was interested, basically calling dibs—but so far they showed no signs of giving it up. Just as well. She needed to save more money for a down payment. The house was small, but this was a very desirable neighborhood and at the upper limit of what she could afford.
Her parents would freak if she bought a house in the D.C. area. They kept thinking that when was she was finished with school she’d come to her senses and move home to Atlanta. After all, there were plenty of restaurants there that needed managers, as they’d told her time and time again. The truth was, Chloe loved living here. She loved the people, her job, the energy of the city. She had friends—even if her social time was limited when school was in session—and she loved this house.
Maybe one day she’d have the man to go with it, even kids if they decided to go that route and her doctor agreed that the risk was acceptable, but for now she liked being independent. A few of her friends felt as if they had to have a guy in their lives or else they were at loose ends, incomplete somehow, missing out on life. Not Chloe. She valued her alone time and her independence. If and when the right man came into her life, that would be great. Until then, she wasn’t looking, and she wasn’t desperate. She’d watched too many of her friends end up with
losers when they thought they couldn’t snag anyone better. A time or two, she’d fallen into the loser trap herself. Okay, three times, before she’d come to her senses. She wasn’t going to settle for Mr. Right Now because she was afraid Mr. Right wasn’t ever going to materialize.
Chloe had often thought that if she had one major characteristic, it was that she was level-headed. Wow, wasn’t that impressive? But she made a great assistant manager, and one day she’d make a great manager, with an MBA, her level head, and her organizational skills—which did not, she admitted, extend to her guest room. She’d get there, though.
She had the whole summer ahead of her to get the spare room in order, get her responses thought out and lined up for the inevitable arguments her parents would fire at her, and get rid of the weird braid that had invaded her dreams. In the bright light of the kitchen, that last detail sounded downright ridiculous. Who let a dream about hair keep her awake at night? Maybe she subconsciously wanted to dye her hair. The color of the braid really was nice. Maybe she’d seen someone on the street with a long braid like that one and she’d mentally filed it away without realizing it.
But what about the sensation that she wasn’t alone? Maybe she did need to seriously consider looking for that elusive permanent man, even though she wasn’t quite ready to settle down. She could start cruising bars until she found a willing and acceptable man—nope, wasn’t going to happen. Her level-headedness said that kind of behavior was both sad and dangerous.
She’d have to take up jogging again, dammit. She should have been doing it all along, but she simply hadn’t had the time. Now that she was out of school for the summer, she didn’t have that excuse. Everyone in Washington jogged, so she’d get out and join the herd.
“Chloe …”
The voice didn’t just surprise her, it shocked her like a slap to the face. Her half-full glass of milk slipped from her hand and shattered on the floor, sending glass and milk shooting across her bare legs and the tile floor. Wildly she looked around, certain that someone was there. The voice, that hoarse whisper of her name, had been right there. The sound had been directly in her ear.
No one. Nothing. She was completely alone.
She began shaking. She wasn’t asleep, she couldn’t write the whisper off to dozing in the middle of the kitchen while she stood there drinking milk and making plans to drag her running shoes out of the closet. The voice had been real, as real as the mess she had to clean up, as real as the thin trickle of blood where a sliver of glass had cut her leg.
After a minute she controlled her ragged breathing, and her panicked senses began settling down. Stepping carefully to avoid the broken glass that surrounded her, she concentrated on cleaning up the mess, focusing on the task so she didn’t have to think of anything else. By the time every speck of milk and glass had been cleaned up and disposed of, she could take a deep breath and let it go. She hadn’t really heard anything; her imagination had gotten the best of her, that was all.
It was either that or admit that she was losing her mind, and pragmatic Chloe couldn’t allow herself to go there.
Across the city, Hector paced in his private quarters. His ability to read energies, to see bits and pieces of the future, had grown in his years as a vampire, but he couldn’t see everything. What use was such an incomplete ability in a time of turmoil? How did he benefit from knowing someone close by was a traitor who had aligned him- or herself with rebels, when the precise knowledge of their identity eluded him?
It was the sensation of battle, of coming turmoil, that most disturbed him. The last thousand years had been relatively peaceful, and his six hundred years on the Council had been productive ones. Order was required for the continued existence of his kind. He had done his part to keep the peace, and everything within him told him that the peace would soon come to an end.
Hector had no great love for humans; he barely remembered being one himself. But humans were necessary for the existence of his kind, and as long as vampires were thought to be nothing more than myth or fantastical beings from horror tales, their survival was ensured. There were always a handful of vampires who thought differently, who wanted to openly take their place at the top of the food chain, but they had never had the strength of numbers and were easily taken care of.
Until now.
There was a knock on his door, and with that knock an increased sensation of the end. He didn’t answer, but he knew the locked door offered only a brief delay of the inevitable. He wasn’t a warrior, had never been a warrior. If Luca were here … but he wasn’t, and wouldn’t be for a few more hours.
All he could do now was use his ability, and Luca’s, to pass on what he could. Concentrating, Hector did his best to fill the air with his thoughts, his energy, and his knowledge. He was looking at the door when it flew open, and in truth was not surprised to see who was on the other side.
He thought the name, whispered it, imprinted the face in his mind, and set it loose.
He fought, of course he did, but he’d been old before he was turned and his physical strength had never been great. The outcome was a foregone conclusion, one he had sensed approaching. And he was aware, at the very end, that there was another traitor in the hallway, listening, waiting, hiding from the power she knew he possessed.
She.
Out of respect, the attacker didn’t drink Hector’s blood before he drove a long-bladed knife into his heart. Three times, it took, before the heart was so damaged that Hector’s long life ended in a burst of bitter, gray dust.
CHAPTER
TWO
It was late morning when Luca arrived in D.C. The sun was shining brightly as he stepped out of the terminal building at Reagan International Airport, and he pulled on a baseball cap before sliding dark sunglasses into place to protect his pale gray eyes as he crossed to Parking Garage A to pick up his rental.
Unlike vampires who were either younger or weaker—the two weren’t always synonymous—he could tolerate sunshine, but he didn’t like it. He protected himself with the cap and sunglasses, as well as long sleeves, but sunlight was still an irritant, making his skin feel as if he was being scrubbed with a stiff-bristled brush. His eyes were the most sensitive; when he’d been a fledgling, all of his senses had been so acutely sensitive that he hadn’t been able to tolerate anything other than complete darkness, and as he’d grown older he’d pushed his limits too far a couple of times and temporarily lost his sight. He didn’t want to repeat that mistake. As far as he was concerned, sunglasses were one of the humans’ best inventions, and it pissed him off that a vampire hadn’t thought of dark lenses centuries ago. Hell, why hadn’t he thought of it, instead of just enduring and waiting?
That was one of the weaknesses of being a vampire: generally, his kind lived so long and were vulnerable to so little, that there was no need for them to be inventive. Humans, on the other hand, were vulnerable to almost everything and lived very short lives, so they didn’t have the luxury of waiting. They were like bees in a hive, constantly working and adjusting and coming up with a million little ways to make the hive more comfortable. Vampires certainly enjoyed those creature comforts, the entertainments, but they usually were nothing more than recipients. More vampires now were working in various fields of science and engineering, but identification was problematic, as well as the fact that they didn’t age, so anything long term was difficult to maintain.
His rental was reserved and waiting for him. He’d flown in under his real name, reserved the car under his real name. He had a very good forger who had provided him with the necessary documents for modern travel. If there was a traitor on the Council, and he trusted Hector enough to believe there was, then he wasn’t going to risk exposing his other, carefully established, identifications, which he used to travel when he wanted to remain totally off the Council’s radar. It would be child’s play for the rogue Council member to glamour a human who worked for the airline industry into checking any passenger list, so Luca put himself out there
front and center. Very shortly they’d know he was in town anyway, so there wasn’t anything to hide.
He always preferred renting a car to taking taxis; not only did he still get a thrill at the speed—a hundred or so years wasn’t nearly long enough to dilute that particular joy for a man who had spent over nineteen centuries getting around on horseback or in oxcarts—but taking a taxi was a pain in the ass. He’d have to talk nonstop, because if he let himself lapse from the driver’s consciousness, even for a few seconds, the driver would forget he had a passenger and either stop to pick up someone else, which would at least cause some confusion and usually hostility, or Luca would find himself in a part of the city where he didn’t want to be. If he wanted to amuse himself he might climb into a cab, but for the most part he didn’t have the time to waste.
After locating his reserved SUV, he threw his duffel in the back and slid behind the wheel. He liked the room in an SUV because he was a big man—at a little over six-two he’d been a giant, back in the day—and he didn’t like folding his long legs into a tiny tin can. He didn’t bother checking into a hotel first, but drove straight toward Georgetown. At his age Hector didn’t require much sleep; he usually napped during the day simply because there wasn’t much else to do, but given the urgency of his phone call, even if he wasn’t awake, he wouldn’t mind being disturbed.
D.C. had been the seat of the Council for the past ninety-odd years, so Luca had spent a lot of time in the city and didn’t have to consult a map as he drove. Before, the Council seat had been in Paris, but there had been an incident during World War I that had come perilously close to exposing the kindred, and the Council had thought it prudent to relocate to another continent. D.C. was a beautiful city, but Luca was always amused that the humans who lived here thought two hundred years was a long period of time, that buildings barely a hundred years old could be called historical.
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