Darkness Bound (A Night Prowler Novel)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Let’s rest a while.”

  She sat with a groan, unlaced her boots, pulled them off, and began to massage her feet.

  “So—you were saying?” she prompted, wincing as she pressed on the arch of her left foot. “Hunted?”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve wanted to wipe us off the face of the planet,” Hawk said wearily, stretching his neck. “Even before Cleopatra, our interactions with humans were . . . treacherous, at best. One of you is always trying to exterminate us.”

  Jacqueline had stilled. Holding her foot in hand, she stared at him with a look of incredulity. “Cleopatra? You’re saying Cleopatra was one of you?”

  He smiled. “One of you, too.”

  “Another half-Blood Queen?”

  He nodded. “Clever and cunning, and extraordinarily powerful. Like all the Queens, including the new one. An Ikati Queen doesn’t come along often, but when she does, great changes swallow us.” He added darkly, “No doubt this time will be the same.”

  “Why?”

  Jacqueline stared at him with such laser-like intensity, Hawk felt as if he were a fly trapped in a web. A fly who almost—almost—didn’t want to escape.

  Stupid, self-destructive fly. Serves you right if the spider eats your dumb ass.

  “A Queen is always the most powerful of all of us, even more powerful than the Alphas. Because of that, she’s above the Law. She can do whatever she likes, without consequence. Combine all that power with complete freedom . . . let’s just say it’s never gone well.”

  She sat a little straighter, her expression avid. “Would I know any of the others?”

  Hawk debated for only a moment before deciding to be truthful. “Marie Antoinette.”

  Jacqueline gasped. “No!”

  “Yes. And you see how well that ended. Aside from those two and the new one, there hasn’t been a Queen in millennia. But you’d probably recognize a few others of our kind who’ve successfully lived among you.”

  Jacqueline waited, unblinking, attuned to his every word. Hawk began to tick a list off his fingers.

  “Sir Charles Darwin, Sir Isaac Newton, Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni—”

  “No!” Jacqueline exclaimed, louder.

  He sent her a sardonic smile. “Yes. Michelangelo. One of your lauded examples of humanity in that lovely article you wrote.”

  In a voice so hollow it sounded as if it emanated from the depths of a well, Jacqueline asked, “Michelangelo wasn’t human?”

  “That doesn’t devalue his accomplishments. In fact, considering he lived with all the pressures and complications of successfully managing a secret life, I think it makes him even more impressive, don’t you?”

  Jack looked at him for several long moments, examining his face. Her expression wavered somewhere between defeat and despair. “You’re telling me the truth.”

  “The truth stings, doesn’t it?”

  The sorrow in her eyes welled up again as if his words had summoned it. “Almost always.” In a haunted whisper, she added, “You’d think I’d know that by now.”

  She stared off into the trees, lost in thought, and Hawk felt again that odd compulsion to know what she was thinking. The compulsion that seemed to be quickly turning into need.

  He knew himself well enough to understand that this dangerous desire to get inside her head went hand in hand with the equally dangerous desire to protect her. He didn’t like either, but he wouldn’t deny these urges existed . . . nor would he pretend both these urges weren’t linked to an intense physical attraction he felt for her. An attraction that grew stronger the more time he spent by her side.

  He just didn’t know what, if anything, to do about any of it.

  She confused him, which made him feel helpless and off balance, feelings to which he was unaccustomed, and ill-equipped to handle.

  She turned her head and pierced him with a look. She blurted, “Was it your idea—the setup? The blackmail?”

  Something in her eyes told him this was important to her. So when he answered, it was with a twinge of pride that he could deny it. “No.”

  Hawk sensed her relief, which flooded him with guilt, and the terrible compulsion to tell her the complete truth.

  “But . . .”

  She looked at him sharply.

  “The pictures.” He cleared his throat, willing himself not to look away. “Using your camera was a little . . . improvisation on my part. I had a small camera of my own available, but when I saw your camera on the nightstand . . . I knew you’d be more likely to play because it would seem so much more natural. And using your own camera against you would make our revenge all the sweeter . . .”

  He couldn’t take her fraught look any longer. He glanced away, ashamed.

  In a small, horrified voice, she asked, “Where we’re going . . . your colony . . . have they all seen the pictures? Has everyone seen me . . . us?”

  Self-serving bastard that he was, Hawk saw an opportunity, and pounced on it.

  “I’ve already told you more than I should. So if I answer your question truthfully, I get an answer of my own. Even if you don’t like mine.”

  Panic flickered across her face. She began to twist a strand of her hair between her fingers, over and over, chewing the inside of her lip as she debated. After a moment of silence, she dropped her head and threaded her hands into her hair, staring at her feet.

  Then she stood and faced him. “Agreed.”

  Courage, he thought. How much courage did it take to walk into this situation, to go where she knew she wasn’t safe or particularly welcome, to entrust a man who’d already betrayed her, to get an answer that may or may not be devastating, and in return answer a question she probably already knew the content of, and would be loath to respond truthfully to, if her last reaction was an indication.

  As if from a distance, Hawk heard himself say, “I know this isn’t easy for you. And if it’s any consolation . . . I admire your courage.”

  Her throat worked. She looked at him, her eyes fierce. “I’m not courageous, Hawk. I’m a coward. I’ve been afraid every single day of my life. I’m afraid right now. Most likely, I’ll be afraid until the day I die.”

  Had she told him she was in love with him, he wouldn’t have been more astonished. Her honesty felt like a sucker punch to the gut.

  As if pulled by an invisible lure, Hawk took a step toward her. “That’s exactly why you are courageous. That’s what courage is: moving forward in spite of your fear. Not letting fear make the decisions for you, no matter how hard it tries. Walking toward danger when everything inside you is screaming at you to run away.”

  He took another step toward her, then another. She didn’t move as he approached, she just watched his progress with vivid blue eyes.

  He stopped a foot away. Rain glimmered in her hair, a fairy crown of shimmering drops atop the sunglow red, and he had to resist the violent urge to plunge his hands into all that beautiful hair, tug her against his body, and cover her mouth with his.

  “Tell me,” she said, a whispered demand that may as well have been, “Kiss me,” the way his body reacted, the tightening he felt in his groin as he stared down at her. The sudden heat flooding his veins.

  “No one has seen the pictures but me.”

  Her lids fluttered shut. She exhaled a quiet breath, then nodded.

  She believed him. Why that should make him so happy, he didn’t know.

  She opened her eyes and gazed at him. Without waiting for the question she knew he would ask, she said, “Garrett is my older brother. It’s his fault I’m so fu—” She stopped herself, and began again. “It’s his fault I’m so messed up. He’s the reason I’m always so afraid. He’s the one who broke me. And I’m not saying this to make you angry or play games, but I can’t talk about him. I can’t talk about him without wanting to pu
t a gun to my head and pull the trigger, to be free of this ocean of fear I’ve been drowning in for so long.”

  Her eyes filled with moisture. A lone tear tracked a zigzag path down her cheek, and before he knew what he was doing, Hawk had lifted his hand and brushed it away with his thumb.

  “No one could break you,” he said vehemently. “You’re too goddamn strong.”

  She blinked. “You cursed,” she whispered, staring at him wide-eyed.

  “And you didn’t,” he replied, his voice strangely hoarse. In fact, he realized, she hadn’t cursed at all in the last two days.

  Since he’d asked her not to.

  They stood there like that in silence, his hand on her face, her gaze locked to his, until the sudden screech of a howler monkey brought them both abruptly back to Earth.

  Jack took a step away, and dropped her gaze to the ground. She sat back down on the mossy rock, shoved her feet into her boots, then rose and walked away.

  “Waterfall,” she said stiffly over her shoulder. “Bath.”

  She disappeared into the trees, leaving Hawk alone in the clearing, his heart twisting like a wild animal inside his chest.

  If pressed, Viscount Weymouth would have to say he first began to hate the Queen the day she stopped him from killing Morgan Montgomery.

  It was several years ago, but the memory of it still rankled him, doubly so because Morgan was supposed to be executed for plotting to kill him.

  He was Keeper of the Bloodlines of the Sommerley colony, and prior to the Queen’s arrival, he’d been an important member of the tribe. He might even go so far as to say revered. His position wasn’t only ancient and respected, it was necessary to the continued survival of their species. Without him and the Matchmaker, couples would woo and wed willy-nilly, and what would become of them then?

  Nothing, that’s what. The purity of their Bloodlines would be lost, and so, most likely, would their Gifts. Eventually they’d be no better than humans.

  And now that the new half-Blood Queen had decided to abolish the Law of arranged matches and allow young couples to let “love” be their guide, Viscount Weymouth had been effectively neutered, and hated the Queen even more.

  Love. Such quaint, plebeian folly.

  Though he shouldn’t be surprised; the Queen’s own father had been executed for falling prey to its grasp. As for himself, he’d never been touched by love’s dangerous whims. His own wife of thirty years was an outlet for the base urges of his body and a valued breeder—she’d given him two strong sons—but nothing more. It was a peculiarity of Ikati nature that they mated for life, but that didn’t always mean they mated for love. In fact, Viscount Weymouth was convinced love was a concept some long-ago female had devised during the throes of a forbidden passion in order to feel absolved from guilt.

  Females, he thought with contempt, staring at his reflection in the floor standing mirror as he adjusted his mustard velvet cravat beneath his florid jowls. Always more trouble than they’re worth.

  Satisfied his old-fashioned neckwear was in perfect order, the viscount patted the lapels of his matching silk vest and turned to and fro before the mirror. He sucked in his paunch, for a brief moment envisioning the slender young man he’d once been long ago, then released it with a gusty exhalation that strained the waistband of his custom-made Italian trousers. This was, in all likelihood, the last time he’d admire his formidable figure in the oval polished glass of his bedroom, and he was in no great hurry to move along.

  God only knew what those savages in the rainforest in Brazil would be wearing. The thought of himself clad in a loincloth made him shudder.

  “They’re ready for you, My Lord,” his valet said, bowing from the bedroom door.

  “Yes, I imagine they are,” replied the viscount absently, donning his jacket. He didn’t move from the mirror.

  Behind him, his valet raised his brows, but the viscount only smiled.

  Let the Queen and her lapdog Alpha wait a while longer. He was in no rush to comply. Though outwardly he remained a loyal servant, inwardly he’d stopped complying long ago.

  Case in point: the Plan.

  Devised by that madman Caesar Cardinalis—a creature as equally devious as he was insane, neither of which, in the viscount’s opinion, negated the soundness of his stance on the correct way to handle both humans and the liberal new Queen—the Plan was simple. The rewards he’d reap if he carried it off successfully, however, would be extravagant indeed.

  Deliver the message to the Brazilian colony that their destruction was imminent and they could either join Caesar or die. Lead everyone to Morocco. Kill the Queen.

  Not necessarily in that order, of course.

  He’d already been quietly assisting the more vocally dissatisfied members of the colonies to join Caesar for months. He had only to read the weekly reports of the names of the attempted deserters to know where to look. It was an unfortunate fact of colony life that some couldn’t bear the weight of their burden to stay secret and silent from the rest of the world, and tried to run. They were always caught, always severely punished—oftentimes put to death—but that didn’t stop the random attempt.

  Only now that Caesar had decided to fast-track his plan for Ikati world domination and had spread the word that all deserters were welcome with him, the attempts were no longer quite so random.

  His valet cleared his throat. Viscount Weymouth rolled his eyes, and gave himself one final once-over.

  “All right,” he said, satisfied. “Off we go.”

  Humming “We’re Off to See the Wizard,” the viscount followed his valet out of the room.

  The Sommerley colony in southern England was the largest of the five Ikati colonies spread over the globe, and by far the most opulent. The Alpha who originally settled it had been concerned only with secrecy and the safety of the few with him who’d escaped the deadly clutches of Caesar Augustus after Egypt fell to Rome, but successive generations of his offspring, emboldened over time by the hubris of those who’d outwitted death, proved particularly adept with money.

  The tribe began to amass a fortune in textiles and trade.

  Spices, incense, precious stones, ebony, silks, rare woods, gold . . . there were few things in which the tribe didn’t have a financial interest. By the mid-sixteenth century, they’d grown too wealthy and were comprised of too many to escape notice any longer.

  The Crown itself took an interest in the secretive, dark-haired clan living like kings at the black ragged edge of the New Forest. Envoys were sent. Discussions were held. Calculated lies were presented.

  Concessions to the visibility their success had brought were made.

  Eventually, an earldom was granted, then a viscounty, then a barony, and the tribe that had so long tried to stay hidden found itself included in the ranks of the most visible and documented group in the civilized world: the British peerage.

  So the English Ikati learned to hide even more effectively by hiding right under their enemies’ noses.

  Except for the occasional shiver of fear that would tingle the spine if one looked too long into the vivid green eyes of these elegant imposters, nothing seemed amiss. No one was the wiser. Life proceeded smoothly.

  Until one day it no longer did.

  “Morocco,” Leander McLoughlin, current Earl of Normanton and Alpha of Sommerley, said, speaking to the beveled glass panes of the picture windows in the East Library of Sommerley Manor. He snapped the word as if it were sour, as if it tasted bitter on his tongue.

  “Hmm,” agreed the woman seated in the plush comfort of an antique silk Hepplewhite chair behind him. Absently, she stroked her fingers over the downy pale fluff atop the head of the newborn she held swaddled in her arms.

  Only sixteen weeks old, and so tiny. Like her twin sister, Honor, Hope was a solemn baby who rarely smiled, and even more rarely cried. The pair h
ad been born after a difficult pregnancy and a long, excruciating labor, and their somberness seemed to acknowledge the fact that they’d been brought into the world only after a great deal of pain.

  Hope looked up at her mother now with a peaceful, even stare, so intent and far-reaching it was as if she saw straight through her into some other landscape. It was at moments like this the Queen felt with absolute certainty her children were creatures born not of her but through her, as if they’d existed somewhere else before, whole and infinitely intelligent, and her body had only been the portal to bring them forth into this plane of existence.

  Jenna loved them with the voracious, violent adoration of a new mother. Into the darkest, smallest corner of her heart she shoved the unspeakable suspicion that her two daughters were something dangerous, the likes of which had never before been seen.

  The night they’d been born, a red-tailed comet had scored the dark sky, vivid as a drop of blood. Jenna had witnessed such signs two other times in her life, and both had been harbingers of disaster.

  Of death.

  Stop being morbid, they’re only babies! She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Hope’s forehead.

  Leander turned from the window. “You’re sure Caesar’s in Morocco?”

  Jenna glanced up at him. Black hair that always looked windswept, even after it had been combed; a lean, taut body; the bearing and powerful presence of an emperor. And that snap of connection, every time their eyes met.

  It never failed to surprise her, the way her heart took flight when he gazed at her. Still, after being married nearly five years, after two children, after everything. He could still make her pulse race with a mere look.

  “He’s there. I can See it.”

  It had been a mystery as to why it had fled in the first place, but as soon as she became pregnant, Jenna could no longer See. Her Gift connected her to all the Ikati across the globe. Like stars against the midnight sky, each one appeared to her as a separate, twinkling entity. Even the half-Bloods. The moment she’d gotten pregnant, however, her Sight had fled . . . and so had her ability to read minds with a touch of her hand. So had all her other Gifts. She couldn’t even Shift to panther anymore.