Aside from the rare occasion he felt inclined to share, he and he alone drank from those meticulously labeled and guarded stores, as was his right. Stock, however, had dwindled to a number he wasn’t comfortable with, and until it was replenished, he would be forced to supplement with plain blood. Because unlike the tender, young Jessica he’d just enjoyed, he never, ever plucked exotic fruit before it was ripe. No, those precious humans with their magical, curious gifts mustn’t be tasted until they’ve been allowed to mature and blossom in flavor.
At the thought, he groaned and rolled over on to his side, fingering the satin lapel of his robe as he grew hard. The wait, which could be no earlier than their fifth and twentieth year, was so dearly worth it. Then, their blood set his throat on fire and exploded like brilliant starbursts in his brain, burning him up from the inside out. And each flavor was unique to its host. Lineage, ethnicity, and, of course, diet played a role in the subtle nuances of taste, but it was the magic that really made their blood soar. That made him crave them to the point of obsession. Witches, telepaths, fairies, werebeasts—it didn’t matter. He wanted them all.
Even if his bliss was ever fleeting.
He glanced down at the tattoo covering his palm. The ink forming half of an anatomically correct human heart was just as bold and crisp as the day it’d been laid. Magic ink was like that, of course. He traced the blue network of veins and the glossy red of the heart itself with his fingertip. That old familiar rage boiled up within him. The artist had been the one and only person who’d ever deceived him.
She’d paid the price with her life.
“Have you heard from Linwood?” Bane strode unannounced into his chambers, his audacity as well as his backwoods-bar clothing making Patrick curl his lip in a snarl. Here was another son who was clearly due for a lesson in respect. He’d been harder and harder to keep in line as of late.
Patrick didn’t bother rising from his reclined position, but began idly smoothing the hills and valleys of the rumpled silk sheet he lay on. “Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?”
Bane’s sharp jaw clenched and then, with visible effort, he smoothed the contempt from his face. And it galled him to do so, Patrick recognized with no small amount of satisfaction. His thirteenth son had never been one to tolerate authority well. Or jealousy.
“Now,” Patrick said with a yawn, stretching so his silky robe separated to expose his genitals. “Would you like to try that again?”
His son’s eyes were drawn to the springy red curls glimmering in the candlelight. Patrick gave a soft laugh. Whereas Bane had never been a lover of hierarchy, he’d always been a lover of sex.
Clearing his throat, Bane looked both angry and aroused. “So have you heard from Linwood? He should be back by now.”
“No, I haven’t.” Patrick reached for the glass of wine sitting on the bedside table. He wasn’t concerned about Jesse. His beloved son would never disobey him. At least not in the ways that counted, he thought as he brought the delicate rim of the glass to his lips.
Bane scowled and sat on the Victorian sofa positioned alongside the bed. “Why do you coddle them? They’re no better than the rest of us.”
Patrick sighed. He was used to Bane’s perpetual jealousy. Its flames had burned brightly in him since he’d been reborn. “On the contrary.” Patrick held the glass’s fragile stem and swirled the red liquid slowly in its basin. Glancing at Bane, he dared him to argue. “They are indeed better.”
Bane’s lips thinned. “He should’ve been back with the girl from Floyd by now. He’s been gone for damn near two months.”
“You know he’s thorough.” Patrick didn’t bother tempering his pride. The one thing he loathed more than the waiting was a sloppy execution. Police involvement was intolerable. Therefore the darlings had to be taken quietly and with sufficient evidence left to suggest nothing was amiss. A missing persons investigation simply would not do. It was time-consuming business. Bane knew this.
“Something doesn’t feel right.” His son shook his head, multiple nose rings flashing.
“Oh, Bane,” Patrick sighed, setting the half-finished glass down with a clink. “Don’t you have better things to do than fret about your brothers?”
“The girl has no family. No ties.” Bane’s knee began to bounce. “He shouldn’t need seven weeks to bring her in, damn it.”
Patrick ignored him. “As a matter of fact, shouldn’t you be prepping for the Silver girl and her brother? She’ll be ready in November.”
“It’s under control.” He dismissed the question with a wave of his ring-laden hand. “In the meantime, I can go to Floyd and see what’s taking him so long. I could—”
“No.” Patrick plucked a strawberry from the crystal bowl on his bedside table and popped the tip in his mouth, sucking ever so gently.
Bane’s nostrils flared, but he didn’t take the bait. He rose from his seat, the tendons in his neck straining. “Don’t be a fool with your blind trust. Just because they’re your first sons and you treat them like spoiled children, doesn’t mean they return your loyalty. They’re both pieces of shit who don’t deserve to be part of this family.”
Still holding his half-eaten strawberry, regal pinky extended, Patrick regarded Bane. “As much as I love you, my son, you have angered me.”
The reprimand only seemed to fuel his ire. “I’ve done nothing those assholes don’t do and get away with on a regular basis. Why can’t you see that?”
Patrick placed the strawberry back in the bowl with the others and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He slipped his feet into his black velvet slippers, lest the cold from the cavern floors give him a chill. Once standing, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his thumb, removing any remaining juice.
“What I see,” he said, “is a jealous boy who has forgotten his place and therefore must be punished.”
Bane swallowed, the tattoos on his throat working, as Patrick’s words finally penetrated his self-righteous insolence. “I’m sorry. You know I didn’t—”
“Have I been too lenient with you?” Patrick’s robe fluttered around his nude body as he walked around Bane. “Have I been so lax you’ve forgotten that I am your father? The one who gave you true life? Hmm?”
When Bane said nothing, Patrick continued his stroll, trailing his fingers along the polished dark-wood backbone of the antique settee. When he came to stop in front of Bane once more, Patrick clasped his fingers and looked up at the son who towered over him. Bane was trembling.
Patrick smiled. “Why else would you feel you could speak to me in such a manner of disrespect?”
“Forgive me, Sire.” He dropped his gaze, all traces of former attitude gone.
“Always,” Patrick said and then opened Bane’s mind with merely a thought, implanting a desire so strong he’d have no choice but to obey. He watched as shock registered on his son’s face.
“I . . . no . . .” Icy-blue eyes widened to incredible proportions as Bane’s own hand moved with a mind of its own while the rest of his body stood frozen. His face grew red and the veins in his temples bulged as he tried to resist. Tears welled and streamed down his cheeks, making the scar disfiguring his upper lip glisten. He began to pant. “Stop. Please . . .”
Patrick said nothing.
Unable to alter its path, Bane brought his shaking left hand to his own mouth and made a desperate groan as he inserted his index finger, the noise hollow inside his throat. Yet he didn’t bite down. Patrick admired the strength of will but wasn’t worried. Blood seeped from Bane’s nose with the effort, and hoarse sobs now croaked from around the digit.
“Don’t make it harder on yourself, my son.” Patrick reached down to grasp his erection. “It is inevitable.”
With a strangled cry, Bane bit down through flesh and bone, the force of his bite being much greater than that of a mere human. The sound of wet splintering filled the silence, and Patrick watched with satisfaction as Bane pulled his hand away, the stump of his now mi
ssing finger mangled and pumping blood. His mouth remained open, the removed appendage resting inside. Bane’s face was a sickly shade of pale, and a sheen of sweat had blossomed on his forehead.
“Finish it,” Patrick growled and stroked himself, the scent of pain, as always, turning him on.
Bane squeezed his eyes shut and closed his mouth, a strangled noise bubbling from his throat as he worked it down. He gagged several times as it lodged in his esophagus, and if Patrick hadn’t been controlling him, he would have doubled over and retched. After several agonizing tries, however, he swallowed it, his entire body trembling.
Satisfied, Patrick released himself and strode back to the bed, erection bobbing. He would call on Dimitri. The servant could finish him properly and then attend to his soiled fingernails. The thought had him humming as he stepped out of his slippers and slid back onto the satin sheets. He fussed with his robe a moment and then settled his palms in his lap, glancing up at Bane.
“Have you learned your lesson?”
Still held upright by Patrick’s mental command, Bane managed a twitchy nod.
“Splendid.” He broke the link, taking a fresh strawberry from the bowl and inspecting it for worms. He’d found one once. A minuscule white wriggling thing. He hadn’t touched another strawberry for nearly seventy years. Shuddering at the memory, he popped the unspoiled fruit in his mouth.
Bane collapsed on the couch in a shivering heap, holding his disfigured hand against his chest as an ever-widening stain of blood soaked his shirt. The possibility that the offensive garment might be disposed of pleased Patrick immeasurably.
“It’ll grow back.” He rolled his eyes at Bane’s embarrassing display of weakness.
A choked sobbing noise was the only reply.
Patrick sighed. “Joshua.”
Within seconds, the boy appeared, his eyes going round as he took in Bane’s sagging form. He was no doubt recalling his own reprimand from earlier.
“Yes, Sire?”
Patrick smiled. Perhaps vicarious punishment was nearly as effective as the real thing. “Would you be a dear and help Bane here to his quarters? He’s feeling a bit under the weather.”
“Certainly.” Joshua nodded and turned to his elder brother. When he offered his hand, however, Bane batted it away and lurched to his feet on his own. He swayed and growled at Joshua, who removed himself from Bane’s path with a gasp.
Patrick laughed as Bane stumbled toward the door. He’d known volunteering Joshua’s help would only add insult to injury. He’d also known it all had been an imperative lesson, painful though it may be. As he eyed the trail of blood droplets Bane left on the stone floor, he realized he really had grown too lenient. Children thrived under the constraint of rules upheld after all, and he was nothing if not an attentive father to his offspring.
“And Bane,” Patrick called amid chewing his strawberry.
Bane paused in the doorway but didn’t turn around. “Yes, Sire?”
“If I find out you’ve interfered in Jesse’s assignment without my permission, I will be most displeased. Do you understand?”
“Yes . . . Sire.”
“Good.” Patrick nodded and leaned back against his pillow, tossing his strawberry stem and reaching for a new one. He wasn’t concerned that Jesse was overdue in returning with Miss Walker. The one thing he knew that Bane did not was there were ways of ensuring these things went according to plan. His sons had free will, but they often needed a push in the right direction, and Patrick wasn’t above using mind control to accomplish that. Whatever reason Jesse had for being late, Patrick was confident he would resolve it soon enough.
Glancing down at his bare thighs, he remembered his unattended erection.
“Send for Dimitri,” he told Joshua, swallowing a piece of fruit. “I have some things I need him to take care of.”
4
Flying Forks & Vanilla Cake
Fourteen dollars and thirty-six cents. I sighed, stuffing the coins and carefully folded stack of crinkled ones into my apron pocket before finishing the end-of-day cleanup. As I wiped down tables, I mentally calculated my funds and outgoing bills. This would be a tight month. Again.
My back groaned in protest as I bent to pick up a crumpled napkin Kristen had missed while sweeping the floor. Still crouched, I spied a fork gleaming in the late afternoon sun across the room. I glared at the thought of going to fetch it and then glanced up, making sure Kristen was still in the back. Satisfied I was alone, I looked back to the fork and, with a movement as natural to me as breathing, reached out and splayed my fingers, calling the utensil. It lifted into the air and came to me, weaving in and out of chair legs. It hit my palm with a precise, controlled stop, and I closed my fingers around it and stood.
Kristen emerged from the kitchen just as I returned to the counter. She eyed the evidence of her shoddy sweep-job with an air of unconcern. I ignored her, tossing the napkin in the trashcan, and took the fork to the kitchen. When I dropped it in the nearly empty sink, Fred glanced at me with a kind smile on his weathered old face. The diminutive man was pushing seventy and had worked at the diner for over four decades. As usual, his thin white hair was neatly combed back and his clothing ironed and crisp.
“Need any help finishing up?” I eyed the few remaining dishes.
He waved a callused hand. “Get on out of here. Old Fred ain’t in no hurry. Got all the time in the world.”
I smiled, nodding. He always refused help and was always the last to leave. Even though he washed dishes, he was also in charge of locking up and dropping the day’s earnings in the night deposit box at the bank across the street. I worried about him being here all alone. Bad things happened in small towns too.
I turned to leave but halted with my hand on the doorjamb when he said, “Actually, there is one thing you might do.”
Glancing over my shoulder in surprise, I looked at him. “Sure. What do you need?”
Towel-drying a plate, he gestured toward the walk-in cooler, his accent more country than even Lou’s. “There’s half a vanilla cake left from today. Needs to be eat.”
I blushed, knowing immediately what he was doing. “No, I can’t—”
“Now you know Lou won’t serve no day-old cake,” he said. “Either you take it home, or I’ll toss it out. I’ve got the sugar, you know. Can’t tolerate the sweets like I used to.”
He was lying, and I didn’t need my gift of intuition to know it.
Embarrassed, but grateful, I headed toward the freezer to retrieve the cake, which had conveniently been placed in a to-go box. I closed the freezer, my voice quiet. “Thanks, Fred.”
“Night,” he said over his shoulder, hands once more submerged in the dingy, soapy water.
“Good night.” I headed back to the front for my sweater, my cheeks hot. I thought about my dinner last night. A can of peas I’d heated over the stove and an apple from the bag of seconds I’d picked up from the local apple house, The Core. You could get a half a peck of the slightly bruised or otherwise imperfect fruits for a couple dollars, depending on the type. I’d chosen McIntosh. I wasn’t complaining, but cake would be a special treat. And I’d overheard a customer say Bickels’ Family Market had boxes of soon-to-expire macaroni and cheese on clearance for a dime apiece today. I couldn’t stand the stuff, but it was cheap, and I was hungry. I just hoped they’d still have some left when I got there.
Kristen was holding an open compact to her face, assiduously applying lipstick when I walked by. She glanced at my box and paused, eyes narrowing. “Is that leftover cake?”
“Yes.” I set the box on the counter and bent to reach into my cubby.
“That old bastard said it was all gone.” Her mouth hung open in dismay.
I hid my smile as I pulled on my sweater.
Recovering, she gave an indignant sniff and snapped her compact closed before slipping it into her purse. She watched me as she rolled down her lipstick and replaced its cap with a click. “So who is he, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” I stood. “Just a customer.”
“Didn’t you ask his name at least?” She zipped her purse and shouldered it. A faint, condescending smile played at the corners of her lips. “Guy that hot, I’d have asked for his shoe size.”
“No.” I reached for the box of cake, my face reddening.
She snorted a laugh and brushed past me without another word, heading toward the back exit. I gripped the box with white fingers, denting the top, as I accidentally picked up on her emotions and thoughts. It happened sometimes when I was tired. When my defenses were down. If I made direct eye contact. Or, of course, if someone was projecting loud enough to wake the dead. She thought I was a loser. She wondered why he was interested in me instead of her. And she hated Fred for lying about the cake.
I blew out an exhausted breath and leaned back against the counter with my arms wrapped around the box, letting her put distance between us. The last place I needed to be right now was inside her head. I was exhausted and hungry, and my feet ached in my cheap, worn-out tennis shoes. I just wanted to go home and eat cake. Maybe some macaroni and cheese. But mostly cake.
When she was gone, I reached into my pocket for my aspirin. The dull headache that came from being around people in general was something I’d grown accustomed to living with, but the kind I got from picking up on Technicolor thoughts like Kristen’s was a railroad spike between the eyes. After swallowing three of them dry, I waited a full five minutes, counting the cars that drove past the diner, their taillights flashing red when they braked at the four-way. As a dually hauling a horse trailer turned left and drove out of sight, I finally pushed away from the counter and headed for the exit. My eyes were drawn to the booth in the back for the hundredth time that day. I could almost see him sitting there, staring at me with his dark, penetrating gaze. For a moment, I wondered who he was and why he’d come back. And what it meant for me. I wondered if maybe I shouldn’t just leave this town sooner instead of later.
First Fruits Page 3