Gripping her short dark hair in one hand, he tipped her head to the side and struck, slicing through the warm silk of her skin, piercing the slight resistance of her vein. Her entire body shuddered in sexual frenzy, as her blood began to flow. It was hot and sweet, and tasted of innocence and sunshine, of a sexual need that was raw and unformed. And it flowed down his throat in a hot flood of life itself.
The darkest part of his vampire nature tried to rise up, to tighten his hold on her and drink until there was nothing left, until she went limp in his arms and her heart stuttered to a halt. There was a time he’d have done that. A time when he’d routinely left death in his wake, instead of sexual satiation. But that was a very long time ago, and doe-eyed Carmen did not deserve to die. She did not need to die. Not at his hand, and not tonight.
Taking a final, long draught of her blood, he withdrew his fangs, holding her against his chest as she trembled through the final throes of her orgasm, then licking the small wounds on her neck to be certain they closed properly.
Christian moved back enough to see her face, but she clutched his shirt, seeming unsteady on her feet. Sliding his fingers through her short hair, he tugged her head back gently. Her eyes weren’t completely focused, but she smiled up at him, and Christian couldn’t help but smile back. She was happy, and apparently it was contagious.
“Let’s get you some sugar,” he murmured. Donating to a vampire was the same, in all the critical aspects, as giving blood. This particular location wasn’t likely to offer cookies—though he’d been to blood clubs that did—but orange juice was always available in a bar.
Holding Carmen steady with an arm around her waist, he started through the crowd, using just enough power to clear a path, without being obvious about it. When he was trying to attract women, he didn’t mind making a grand entrance, but with a pale and trembling female on his arm who’d obviously just been bit . . . well, let’s say there were some in the crowd who might object. And while there were some nights, and some clubs, where Christian would have welcomed the opportunity for a good brawl, this was not the night or the place.
All of the stools at the bar were taken, and the crowd was two people deep in most places. But Christian steered Carmen into a dark corner at the end, and suggested that the guy sitting on the last stool next to the wall might want to go elsewhere. The man vacated the seat just in time for Christian to slide Carmen onto the empty stool. She blew out a long breath, as if wearied by their hike across the dance floor, and Christian chuckled. He had a feeling he’d have liked shy Carmen if he’d met her under other circumstances. But as it was, he’d never see her again. Or if he did, she wouldn’t remember him. He’d make sure of it.
While he waited for the bartender to make his way down the long, busy bar to them, he scanned the club, seeking Marc’s familiar figure. Their hour was nearly up; it was time to leave. But while he knew Marc was near, he couldn’t spot him in the crowd. Frowning, he tapped into their unbreakable link just as that link flared to life. Marc was outside the club, and he was pumping adrenaline like a guy getting ready to kick someone’s ass. Shit. Only two minutes ago, Christian had been aiming for a subtle exit.
He signaled the bartender again, using a sharp push of power to make sure the man made a beeline to their end of the bar. Pulling out a hundred dollar bill, he gestured at Carmen and said, “Get her a Harvey Wallbanger, heavy on the juice. A second one if she wants it. Keep an eye on her after, and the rest is yours.”
The bartender gave Carmen a knowing look. “Sure thing, boss.”
Christian stroked a hand down Carmen’s arm, and deposited a gentle kiss against her temple. “Have a good life, bichette.” And then he was heading for the door.
He shoved the doors open with his power a moment before he reached them. A few of those waiting in line shouted in surprise—maybe because they’d been standing too close to the doors. He didn’t care. The bouncer gave him a quick glance, but most of his attention was fixed on the scene unfolding on the far side of the parking lot.
“You going to need help?” the bouncer asked, without turning his head.
“No. I’ll keep it quiet.” Christian passed the man another hundred, his gaze locked on Marc who was facing down no fewer than six human males.
“Good man,” the bouncer said. “Thanks.”
Christian strode across the lot, not bothering to announce his presence. Marc would already know he was there. The Sire link went both ways. The six humans were backed up against a line of SUVs and trucks, and Christian could see two more men lurking between the vehicles. He didn’t know if they were part of the gang, or had simply been caught in the wrong place when the confrontation went down.
Marc’s shoulders relaxed when Christian walked up behind him. He was fully capable of taking on all six of the men facing him, and the two hiding among the trucks, too. But not without making a scene, and he knew that Christian wanted to avoid that.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” Christian asked mildly, stepping up to stand next to Marc.
“Who the hell are you?” one of the men sneered. Not the biggest one, but the one standing a half-step in front of the others. The leader.
Christian regarded him curiously. “I’m the guy evening out the odds here. Six against one. Not very sporting of you.”
“It is when he’s a vamper. So move along, asshole.”
“How do you know he’s a . . . vamper?”
“Saw him seduce Ben here’s girl, that’s how. Walked right up and whammied her, so she’d bend over for him.”
Christian smiled, despite the seriousness of the situation. He strongly doubted Marc had bent the woman over anything. For that matter, he doubted Marc had whammied her either. Marc was his child, after all.
“I suspect the true source of your objection is that Ben here’s girl willingly offered herself to my friend, without the need for whammying. And perhaps Ben is now feeling somewhat inadequate in the face of his girl’s subsequent sexual satisfaction.”
The leader blinked at him for a moment, as if his alcohol-fogged brain needed time to process what Christian had said. When it finally hit him, he scowled. “You’re his buddy? Are you a vamper, too?”
Christian sighed. He looked over and exchanged a glance with Marc. “We don’t have time for this.”
Marc nodded. “I’m topped off, so if you want to conserve your energy for later . . .”
“No, I’ll handle it.” He raked his glance over the six men, noting the absence of the two who’d been idling among the vehicles. Apparently, they’d lingered to watch and had moved on when it became obvious that nothing exciting was about to happen. Unless one counted what Christian was about to do as exciting.
“Say good-night, Gracie,” he murmured. He pushed a little of his power at the humans, and watched dispassionately as they all slumped to the ground. And if he took particular pleasure in the fact that the leader’s head hit the ground a little harder than the others? Well, what did you expect from a vamper?
He smirked as the thought occurred to him, then turned at the sound of Marc’s chuckle.
“If that’s your idea of a brawl, we’re going to need a place to work out. Either that, or build a gym into the house.”
“We won’t be at the house long enough. By the time it’s built, we’ll be gone. But there must be a good dojo or two in this city, preferably with someone who knows Krav Maga. Texas is full of military guys, and the Special Force types typically endorse the discipline.”
“So we find a dojo, then.”
“I’ll probably be meeting Raphael’s rep, Jaclyn, tomorrow. I can ask her about a place, and there’s your friend Cibor. He’ll probably know, too.” Christian glanced around the parking lot, then down at the unconscious humans. “We should probably get out of here, before anyone notices these guys.”
“
The bouncer saw—”
“He’s been taken care of. Let’s go.”
“ARE YOU SURE it was Christian Duvall who called?”
Natalie Gaudet rolled her eyes, thankful her back was turned so the other woman couldn’t see it. Anthony’s secretary, MariAnn, had asked this same question at least ten times in the last hour.
“All I can tell you is what the man told me. He said he was Christian Duvall, and he wanted an appointment. Lord Anthony was in his office, so I checked with him, and he said to schedule it for shortly after midnight.”
“But Christian’s never come to the office before. If I’d known he was—”
“Why the big fuss? They’re all gorgeous—he’s just one more in a long line.”
“But Christian . . . he’s, he’s . . . tall, dark, and delicious. Like an ice cream cone that you just want to lick all over.”
Natalie frowned. She liked ice cream as well as the next person, but comparing a vampire to an ice cream cone?
“Why don’t you go on down the hall and freshen up before he gets here,” she urged. “I’ll hold down the fort.” Anything to get the hysterical woman out of Natalie’s air space for even a few minutes. The girl had been running around like a chicken without a head ever since she’d heard the name “Christian Duvall.” Not in fear, mind you, but because she’d seen the vampire from across the room once and thought he was so handsome. As if every vampire who walked through that door wasn’t just as fine to look at as the next one.
“Thanks,” the overwrought MariAnn responded. “I’m going to run out to my car. I picked up my dry cleaning on the way in tonight, which must be fate, don’t you think? I have to change my blouse, and maybe this skirt, too. And I think—”
Nat tuned out MariAnn’s monologue on the wardrobe dilemma, something that had become a habit in the two months they’d worked together. The tuning out part, that is. Anthony had a tendency to hire secretaries more for their decorative properties than for their skills or experience. And with Natalie’s office less than fifteen feet away from whatever pretty face Anthony positioned at the reception desk, tuning out had been critical to getting her own work done.
She admitted a certain curiosity about MariAnn’s current hysterics, though. This Christian Duvall must really be something to drive the girl right up to the edge of hysteria like that. He hadn’t sounded like much on the phone. Oh sure, he’d had a nice voice. But he’d also been rather stiff and formal. The attitude didn’t exactly scream hunk-a-licious to her. It might have been a language barrier, though. English obviously wasn’t his first language, and he had a fairly strong accent. But he hadn’t seemed to mind when Nat joked with him about his formality. The very fact that he’d understood that she was joking told her he probably didn’t have a stick up his ass. Not like some of the old ones did.
She looked up in time to catch the flash of MariAnn hurrying out of the office, her heels tapping down the hardwood floor of the hallway. She hoped the girl hadn’t said anything important before she rushed out, but then she shrugged. Whatever. It wasn’t her job to run this office. She was the accountant. Or more to point, the forensic accountant, brought in to unravel the twists and turns of old Jabril’s sneaky finances. As an honest woman, she was appalled by the blatant theft the dead vampire lord had been perpetrating against the two young Hawthorn heiresses. But as an accountant, she had to admire the cleverness of it all. It took some real talent to manipulate books like that. Although a goodly amount of simple document forgery was involved, too.
In any event, it was her job to figure out what belonged to the Hawthorns and what was legally part of Jabril’s estate, which was now Anthony’s estate. Although, with Anthony having decided to give up the territory and return to New Orleans, it wouldn’t be his estate much longer. Everything would be transferred to the new lord, whoever that was. She only hoped the new guy was honest, and didn’t try to keep what wasn’t his. Between Jabril making Mirabelle Hawthorn a vampire against her will when she was only eighteen, and sending the terrified Liz Hawthorn into hiding where she almost lost her life, the Hawthorn girls had suffered enough.
CHRISTIAN STRODE down the second floor hallway toward Anthony’s office. He’d passed through checkpoints at the gate and front door, but security inside the building was remarkably light. Anthony ran his household as if he was still the Master of New Orleans, not Lord of the South. It was obvious that his heart was back in Louisiana. The only real question was why he’d taken on the South in the first place. Raphael must have been very persuasive, and Christian wondered what exactly had been promised.
But this empty hallway disturbed him on a level he couldn’t quite pin down. It made the back of his neck itch, despite the absence of any apparent threat. Casting a faint probe behind the many closed doors, he found several humans, but only one or two vampires. Anthony’s location was obvious, but he didn’t have a single vampire with him. No lieutenant, no security. It was all very odd.
Christian sensed Marc’s arrival downstairs. He’d stopped outside to answer a question from a vampire he knew from the previous week’s socializing, and was just now entering the building. Christian hadn’t protested the delay, because there had been no obvious danger. Despite his itching neck, he couldn’t see Anthony scheming to ambush him in his office. It made no sense. It wasn’t as if the vampire lord was being forced aside; he’d chosen to step down. And he’d never met Christian before, so there was no personal animosity between them. If anything, this total absence of security might be Anthony’s way of delivering a subtle slap of insult, telling Christian that he was so insignificant that the Southern lord didn’t even bother to guard against him. If so, he was in for a surprise.
Christian’s steps were muffled on the hallway’s wooden floor, but only because he was making an effort not to stomp like an elephant. He drew closer to the open double doors. There was no sign indicating this was Anthony’s office, but Christian didn’t need one. Anthony wasn’t the most powerful North American lord by far, but he was a powerful vampire, and by virtue of carrying the Southern mantle, his power and presence were enhanced. It was all the juice coming in from the hundreds, or even thousands, of vampires who called the South home. Christian didn’t know for sure how many vampires lived in the territory. A decent briefing on the territory had been one of the things he was hoping for from tonight’s meeting. It wasn’t an ordinary request, but then, this wasn’t exactly an ordinary situation. Vampire lords did not retire. They were assassinated and replaced.
He stepped inside the office, and glanced around. He could sense Anthony behind a second set of double doors, directly in front of him. But those were closed. There was a receptionist’s desk, but no one was there. The computer screen was lit up, however, which suggested the occupant hadn’t been gone long. A second office door stood open to the left, and he could hear the quiet sound of computer keys being typed from somewhere inside. Christian didn’t bother to announce his presence. Anthony knew he was here, just as he knew Anthony was there. If the Southern lord wanted to play games by making Christian linger on the doorstep like a petitioner, he was welcome to it. But Christian wasn’t going to participate in his games by seeking Anthony out either.
He strolled around the office casually, studying the numerous photographs and framed documents on the walls with some amazement. A vampire’s near immortality was both a blessing and a curse. When one lived for centuries, one witnessed incredible, sometimes earth-shattering, events. Christian had fought in and survived more wars than he could easily remember, including two world wars, and several smaller conflicts that had encompassed his entire world at the time. And the technological leaps that had been made in the last hundred years still astounded him sometimes.
But the point was that every vampire who survived beyond his first century coped with the same problem of wanting to chronicle and remember one’s history when that history encompassed
centuries rather than decades. And each of them had ways of dealing with it. Some, like Raphael, gathered histories written by others—ancient books and texts—while still living very much in the modern age.
Others surrounded themselves with mementoes of a long life—photographs, art, letters.
But here in Anthony’s office, there was no sense of history at all. Nothing in this office—not a photograph, a document, a memento—was older than twenty years. It could as easily have been the office of a human politician or CEO. Endless photographs of a smiling Anthony, shaking hands with what Christian could only guess were local politicians and businessmen. And scattered among them, framed documents commending Anthony for charitable donations, for work in the community, for building a fucking hospital wing.
All very admirable and up front, but . . . whom exactly did Anthony hope to impress with these credentials? Vampires wouldn’t give a shit about any of this. Was it possible that this was only Anthony’s public office? That somewhere in the bowels of the huge estate there was a private office more suited to a powerful vampire? If so, then greeting Christian here, in this very human office, was part and parcel with the subtle slap of Anthony’s dismissal of him as a threat.
“You must be Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious.”
The woman’s comment wasn’t a surprise. He’d known she was there, had detected her heartbeat from the hallway, heard the soft whisper of silk when she’d moved into the office doorway, and the snick of her heel catching on the deep pile carpet. But that didn’t stop his gut from reacting to the sound of her voice. It was Natalie from the phone call. He smiled and spun to face her.
“SURELY NOT,” THE vampire said, turning with the controlled grace of a dancer, his eyes flashing wickedly as he ran strong fingers through the loose length of his dark blond hair. “You’re thinking of my lieutenant perhaps. His hair is much darker than mine.”
Christian (Vampires in America: The Vampire Wars Book 10) Page 4