Rajmund

by D. B. Reynolds

  The music changed as they neared the dance floor, becoming soft and sensuous, slow and delicious. Sarah was swept into Raj's embrace, feeling small and delicate against his broad, muscled chest, circled by his strong arms. Even with her heels, she didn't come up to his shoulder, but he didn't slouch like some men did, or pick her up bodily and drag her around the dance floor either. He took the fingers of her right hand, curled them into his left and held them close to his heart, then dropped his other hand low on her back, his fingers drifting a little bit lower still. He exerted the slightest pressure and their bodies were touching, her breasts against his chest, his hips against her belly. Sarah looked up as they moved out among the other couples and met those beautiful blue eyes.

  "Put your arm around me, little one,” he murmured. “Dance with me."

  Sarah narrowed her eyes at the endearment, but slid her left hand over his impossibly broad chest, before letting it curl around his waist.

  "There you go.” He bent his head closer and began to sway gently to the music. “You smell delicious,” he whispered.

  She smiled at the blatant double entendre and found herself relaxing, truly relaxing, for the first time in months, maybe even years. She closed her eyes, letting her head rest against his deep chest, letting the flow of his even breathing lull her gently, the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath her ear.

  They moved easily through the densely packed dance floor, circling around until they were nearly hidden in the dark recesses of an empty alcove, the soft velvet of a black curtain against the back wall, drinking in and absorbing the dim light from the crowded lounge.

  Sarah felt Raj's hand slide lower until it rested on the swell of her ass, felt his fingers press harder until there wasn't even the smallest space between them. She felt his breath against her skin as he bent his head to kiss her temple, the wet warmth of his tongue as it teased the curve of her ear. She shivered as he kissed the sensitive skin below her ear, tracing the line of her jugular until he stopped and sucked gently, not breaking the skin, just gliding his tongue in a circle as if marking the spot.

  She could feel the smooth brush of his fangs against her neck, the hard length of his cock against her belly. She raised her arms, wrapping them under his shoulders and around his back, pressing herself closer, rubbing herself against his arousal. Raj chuckled softly. “So eager, little one."

  Sarah heard herself moan softly, a sound so full of sensual hunger she couldn't believe it had come from her own throat. Raj responded, growling as he lifted her easily, spinning her around and pinning her against the wall. His hand slipped beneath the silk of her dress, pushing it up her thigh and over her hip. Her arms circling his neck once again, she hooked her bare leg around his hip and urged him closer, wanting to feel him between her legs. Raj lifted her leg higher across his back, sliding his hand under her thigh and into the wetness between her legs, pushing aside the soaked triangle of her silken thong.

  Sarah cried out as his thick fingers slid easily into her slick folds, penetrating deep inside her, stretching her, preparing her for the full thickness of the cock she could feel growing ever harder, ever longer . . .

  "Sarah?"

  Sarah blinked . . . and froze, suddenly terrified. Wondering where—

  "Sarah?” Raj repeated, his fingers lifting her chin gently.

  She blushed hotly and stepped back, putting space between them, feeling the heat of her own arousal, the wetness between her legs. Anger flashed through her and she glared up at him.

  "Are you all right?” he asked solicitously.

  She drew a deep breath, certain he'd done something to her, but he seemed truly concerned, and she didn't want to embarrass herself by accusing him of . . . She swallowed hard, trying desperately to forget the feeling of his mouth, his . . . Oh God, they weren't in some hidden alcove. They were still on the dance floor. Had that all been her head? “It's probably jet lag,” she said weakly.

  "Come on,” he persisted. “I think you need to sit down.” He took her hand in his strong fingers, and she felt a renewed flush of desire, remembering exactly what those fingers had felt like between . . . her legs were shaking when Raj lifted her onto the bar stool.

  "Here you go,” he said, handing her the tall champagne flute. “Take a sip, you'll feel better."

  Better? Was he mad? If she felt any better, she'd be a puddle of needy goo on the floor! “Thank you,” she said, took a small sip and closed her eyes, feeling the bubbles tickle all the way down her throat.

  "Tell me where we were,” he murmured against her ear. “What we were doing."

  Her eyes shot open and then narrowed suspiciously. “I don't know what you mean."

  "Yes, you do.” He smiled teasingly. “You whispered my name."

  "I did not!"

  He laughed, a purely masculine sound, full of confident sexuality. “You've never been to a blood house before, have you?” he asked.

  "What's a blood house?"

  Raj lifted his chin, gesturing toward the dance floor. “This, sweetheart. Blood and sex for the taking . . . and the giving."

  "Oooh,” she said and felt her face heating with renewed embarrassment. “I didn't know. I'm sorry, I—"

  "Don't apologize,” he said cheerfully. “I quite enjoyed it."

  She looked up at him quickly, wondering what—

  "Nothing happened, Sarah. You just sort of drifted away while we were dancing. I'd be insulted—” He lowered his voice. “—but since you were dreaming about me . . ."

  Sarah gave him a disgusted look.

  "You know,” Raj continued, his amusement obvious, “I get to Buffalo every once in a while. Maybe we'll meet again."

  "Maybe not."

  "Ah, now. Stranger things have happened."

  "Not to me,” she muttered. She flashed suddenly on her dreams of tormented women and shuddered, knowing that wasn't quite true.

  Raj frowned and moved closer, putting one of his huge hands on her arm. “Are you cold, sweetheart?"

  She felt inexplicable tears pressing against the back of her eyes and lowered her head so he wouldn't see, focusing on the glass of champagne she was still holding. “I'm fine,” she lied. “Just tired. I'm not usually up this late. I live a very boring life in Buffalo."

  "We'll have to change that then, won't we?"

  Sarah took another sip of her now warm champagne and wondered what it was she really wanted. Back in Buffalo, all she'd wanted was for things to return to the way they were, the way they'd been before the dreams came back. But now . . . She heard Cyn and Raphael returning from the dance floor, heard them laughing with each other as they settled back onto the banquette. And she felt the solid presence of Raj standing next to her, the comfort of having a protector, even for a short time, someone who stood between her and the rest of the cold world.

  And suddenly she wasn't sure what she wanted at all.

  The next night, Sarah opened the door of the big SUV and jumped out, walking around the back where one of Raphael's vamps was waiting with her small rolling suitcase and the hanging bag with the new red dress in it. She took the bag and draped it over her arm, running a hand down the nylon cover as if stroking the dress beneath it. She glanced at Cyn who was waiting to say good-bye. “I'll probably never wear this again,” she said wistfully.

  "There's always the faculty Christmas party."

  "My colleagues would have apoplexy, and their wives would be convinced I'm trying to steal their pale, chubby husbands away from them."

  Cyn laughed. “Sounds like a lovely bunch. I'll have to visit sometime."

  Sarah added her own laughter. “You'd die of boredom before you ever got out of the airport.” She looked up and met her friend's green eyes. “Thanks, Cyn. I had a great time."

  Cyn studied her for a minute. “You call me, Sarah. If you need anything, you call me, okay? Even if it's just a friendly voice."

  "I will.” She hugged Cyn, then grabbed the handle of her overnight case. “I gotta get goi
ng or I'll miss my flight."

  "Take care.” Cyn kissed her cheek before walking back around and sliding into the SUV. Sarah stopped to wave awkwardly around her baggage and saw Raphael's arm circle Cyn's shoulder and pull her close, as if even that few minutes apart had been too much.

  She stood and watched until they were gone, then trudged into the terminal as the automatic doors whisked open in front of her. She had a life waiting for her back in Buffalo. Maybe not the one she would have chosen, maybe not even the one she'd planned when she took the job there. But at least they didn't lock her up at night. Not yet, anyway.

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  Chapter Six

  "So what'd he say?"

  Raj rested his elbows on the rooftop railing, ignoring the question to gaze moodily at the busy Manhattan street thirty-five stories below. He leaned forward and stared intently, thinking he'd seen a woman in a red dress. He laughed at himself. Sarah Stratton was long gone, back to her books and her classrooms. She'd been right about one thing. He'd probably never see her again. Which would be a shame, he decided and immediately wondered why he'd thought that.

  "Raj?"

  He turned a cool look on his persistent club manager. “How's the new club doing, Santos?"

  "Great. We're picking up all the overflow from Chopin's, plus even more with the new location. But we gotta talk about this other thing, Raj."

  "You want to talk to someone, get a therapist."

  "Damnit, I thought—” Santos's next words were cut off as Raj grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off his feet.

  "Do we have a problem, Santos?"

  Santos tried to answer but could only gurgle wordlessly. Raj opened his hand and let him fall to the ground, where he remained, crouched on all fours and coughing furiously.

  "Forgive me, Master,” Santos finally choked out.

  Raj gave him a dismissive glance. “Get the fuck out of my sight."

  Santos started to stand, but one look at Raj had him crawling the several feet to the stairway door before dragging himself up to stumble down the stairs.

  Raj scowled, listening to the metallic racket of the vamp's footsteps fade away. He returned to his perusal of the street below with a disgusted curse. “I hate that fucking vampire shit,” he said.

  "But you do it so well.” The woman's voice was laced with amusement. She strolled out of the shadows to lean over the rail, joining him in his contemplation of the faraway traffic. “He was only asking the question we all want answered, you know. It's been two nights since Raphael left and you still haven't said a word. We're curious."

  "You too, Em?"

  Raj's lieutenant shrugged. “Me especially."

  Raj sighed. “You're all so eager, maybe one of you should take on Krystof instead."

  Emelie laughed. It was a low, sensuous sound. “He'd eat me alive. You're the only one, Raj, and we all know it.” She glanced over and away before reversing to brace her back against the cold metal.

  "What if I don't do it?” Raj asked quietly. “What if I decide not to get rid of the old man?"

  She gave another graceful shrug. “I'm yours, Raj, body and soul. You made me, you own me. My loyalty is yours whether you stick with what you've got or take on Krystof and the whole Northeast.” She paused to lean closer. “But I'm also your friend. And as a friend, I need to understand what's going on so I know whether or not to be worried. You and I both know that Krystof can't last much longer. If you don't take him out, someone else will, and then we'll have a fight on our hands because whoever it is will want this city for himself. Krystof might be content to fester in Buffalo, but no one else will be."

  Raj studied the beautiful woman who'd somehow had the strength to become his lieutenant in the dog-eat-dog world of vampire politics. She'd meant what she'd said about being his friend, and her loyalty touched him somewhere he didn't want to admit to. “You know,” he said. “Raphael told me right out that he thought Krystof had lost it. So did Duncan."

  Emelie's face showed her surprise. “I thought those guys played it closer to the vest."

  "Yeah. It gets better. He offered me an alliance once I take the territory."

  "Excuse me?"

  Raj laughed. “That was pretty much my reaction, too. He wasn't that blunt, of course, but the meaning was pretty damn clear."

  Em absorbed this new information. “Well,” she said finally. “You are the obvious choice. I mean, if he thinks Krystof needs to go, you're stronger than anyone out there, and you know the territory."

  "Yeah,” Raj sighed. “And I'm sure as hell not going to stand back and let someone else move in on us, so I guess—” His cell phone rang, playing a distinctive tune that could only mean one thing. “Fuck,” he swore and yanked the phone out of his pocket.

  "My lord,” he answered.

  "Rajmund,” his Sire, the Vampire Lord Krystof, said silkily. “How did the visit go?"

  "Quite well, my lord."

  "Excellent. You can tell me all about it when you get here."

  "My lord?"

  "Something's come up, Rajmund. I'll need you in Buffalo for a time."

  Raj frowned, wondering what the old man was up to. Krystof had given Raj the rich territory around New York City for a reason. It kept him happy—and far away from Buffalo. Sure, the old man was curious about Raphael's visit, but they could have handled that on the phone. So why was he being called back now?

  "Something, my lord?” he asked.

  "Something rather ugly."

  "What does that—"

  "You'll find out when you get here."

  Raj was tempted to ask what kind of trouble could possibly have come up in fucking Buffalo that the old man's usual flunkies couldn't handle. But that flirted too closely with rebellion, and he wasn't ready to show his hand yet. “Very well, my lord,” he ground out through clenched teeth. “I can fly at first dusk tomorrow—"

  "Fly tonight, Rajmund."

  "My lord—"

  "You have a private jet.” Krystof's voice turned petulant. “Use it. I'll see you an hour after sunset tomorrow, and I'll expect a full report on your visitor.” The old man hung up.

  "Fuck!"

  Emelie just looked at him. Her vampire hearing would have given her both sides of the conversation, enough to understand Raj's anger. “We're going to Buffalo?"

  "Not we. I need you here; I don't trust anyone but my own, and besides, I don't want Krystof knowing about you yet, not officially. He might be senile, but he's not blind."

  "You can't go there alone, Raj. At least take a few of the guards with—"

  "I am capable of defending myself, Emelie. Besides, I'm not supposed to have guards."

  "He's got to know you're making your own. His spies—"

  "His spies can report anything they want, but if I show up surrounded by my own children, he'll have to do something about it. I'm not ready to push him yet. I'll go alone. Call the airport and get the jet prepped.” He calculated the remaining hours of darkness and swore softly. Damn that old man. “And tell them I'm on my way."

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  Chapter Seven

  Buffalo, New York

  It was cold. So cold. Regina shivered in her thin jacket, wishing she'd worried more about staying warm when she'd dressed for Katie's bachelorette party and less about looking good. Note to self: next time you get kidnapped, wear a decent coat. Her desperate chuckle became a sob of terror as the heavy metal door clanged open once more, sending tremors through the concrete floor. She pushed herself back against the wall, feeling the hard chill of the metal bed frame low against her back. She'd heard someone crying again last night. A cell door had clanged open and she'd been so grateful it wasn't her they were coming for, so desperately glad she wasn't the one crying, begging.

  She jumped at the sound of metal on metal, close in the darkness. Her door opened and dim light fell in from the corridor, piercingly bright to her eyes which had grown used to the near total darkness of
her cell. A man filled the narrow doorway, a dark silhouette with wide shoulders and a square head, eyes gleaming in the faint light. She scrambled off the bed and into a corner, tucking her knees to her chest, her whole body shaking with the force of her pounding heart. She clamped her lips tight, refusing to make a sound.

  "I know you're there, little girl. You can't hide from me."

  A cry of dismay escaped her lips and she heard herself sobbing just like the others, pleading. “No, please,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Not me."

  Her protests crumbled as he drew closer, as his eyes bored into hers, clouding her mind with something sticky and warm. The light from the hallway faded until there was nothing but his eyes, his will, his desire. He reached for her, and somewhere deep inside she screamed.

  Sarah rolled out of bed, not even stopping to turn on the lights in a blind dash for the bathroom. She fell to her knees and threw up, her stomach heaving uncontrollably as she gripped the sides of the toilet bowl, gasping for breath.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and she begged silently, Not again. Please, God, not again.

  She huddled on the floor next to the cold porcelain, her stomach empty, her throat burning. Repulsed by the smell, she slammed the seat down, reached up and flushed. Pushing back against the wall, she levered herself up to sit on the closed lid and turned on the water in the sink, splashing her overheated face, ignoring the water that spilled over the sides and onto the linoleum tiles. She grabbed a towel from the rack and covered her face, leaning forward until her forehead touched her knees.

  It was all so familiar, the isolation, the cold, every heartbeat like a bass drum against her rib cage, every breath as loud as a bellows in the dead silence of her captivity. Theresa Bracco, the teenager from West L.A., and Julie Seaborn, a mother of two from Hollywood . . . and the others, the nameless others who'd haunted her dreams. The ones she'd tried to ignore. She remembered them all.

  And she remembered what had happened when she went to her parents for help.

  The institution they'd sent her to was more of a boarding school than an asylum—except for the locks on the doors. She'd been fifteen years old when she walked through those doors, and she hadn't walked out again until her eighteenth birthday when, as an adult under California law, she'd fled her parents’ tender care and reinvented herself. A new name, a new city, a new life. College, graduate school, a job. Just like everyone else. No one knew who she really was. No one. Not even her good friend Cyn knew the truth about Sarah Stratton. There was nothing to distinguish her from the millions of people who went to the office or to school, who worked hard and slept safe in their beds every night. And that was just the way Sarah wanted it.