Faster than a snake, she blinked at the other vampire’s name. Lance saw the movement anyway. Solid confirmation that she didn’t like the man. He shifted tactics. He would get her to tell him what she was doing.
“Why did you say the tiger smelled like him?” Lance asked.
“Why did you let those werewolves in?” She leaned back, and propped herself with her arms on the fence top behind her. Her smirk said, “Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs, kid.”
This was going nowhere fast. Maybe she knew an interrogation when she saw one.
Lance recalculated his strategy. Perhaps she would respond to him answering her question. He matched her posture, leaning back and sprawling his legs out. The vampire licked her lips. After a quick glance at his crotch, she dragged her gaze back to his face.
“Well?” she asked.
“It was the right thing to do.”
She hinged forward at the hips and rested her elbows on her knees. “Of course it was.” Her wet hair rustled against her gold dragon as she looked over her shoulder.
If Lance was feeling charitable, he would call the expression on her face “cynical.” His earlier exhilaration drained away, leaving him tired and aching.
“I have nothing to lose. The shelter runs out of money”—he checked his watch—“in nine hours. All this fury over a meaningless action.”
Her head drooped as she studied the rocks beneath her shoes. “It has meaning.” Absently, she touched a sparkling earlobe.
“One night’s sleep, then everyone’s back on the street.” Lance shook his head, hiding his resignation under his matter-of-fact tone. “Doesn’t matter.”
Lance heard her take a harsh breath.
“No. It matters so much that Radu tried to kill you tonight,” Valerie started, then paused. The moon gilded them in glimmering silver as she rotated to straddle the rock fence.
Lance’s scalp tingled. This was important. “How can you be so certain of that?”
She tapped the side of her nose. “That tiger reeked.”
“You know him that well?”
“Well enough to know that he won’t stop until he gets what he wants. He wants you out of his way.” A cold pale hand touched his knee. “I will help you if you help me.”
“Oh?” He studied her. So many undercurrents with this woman.
“I have unfinished business with him. If I become your bodyguard, we can kill two birds with one bullet.”
Killing two birds. Instead of answering, Lance played for time. As though his hand moved without his conscious will, it reached over and stroked her throat. She shivered when he traced the curled rim of her ear and touched the large diamonds.
Fascinated by her responses, he kept touching her. A single finger down the side of her jaw to her pointed chin made her close her eyes and clench the stone hard enough to crack the granite. She tipped her face to the moon and swallowed as he ran that finger down her pale throat to the pit of her neck.
“And what exactly would my bodyguard do?” he murmured.
She turned, her face a whisper away from his.
“I’d never leave your side. Everywhere you go, I go. I sip from your cup. I eat from your plate. You’ll never be without me.”
Lance’s belly tensed. There was more to her words than either of them wanted to acknowledge.
He slipped his hand under her jacket and shirt. The cool bare skin of her back goose-pimpled under his touch. His hands explored the tender skin of her quivering belly. This woman was like no other. His carefully banked arousal woke and demanded they finish what they started in that bed.
She continued, unknowing of his thoughts. “And when he makes his move on you, I make my move on him.”
Lance’s ardor chilled. So much for distraction. On the surface, she wanted him to tempt the CCC into carelessness.
Under the surface, she meant to kill the famous vampire. Lance’s shoulders tensed as though she was about to whip out a pistol and go hunting right now.
Being involved in a murder, even tangentially, would destroy his chance at atoning for his sins, something Lance had worked for since he was eighteen. Anger heated him back up.
Even worse, assassinating Radu Tepes would start a world-wide revolt. The high-profile vampire was personally a jerk, but he was also a symbol of PNC dreams and aspirations to wealth, prestige, and political power.
“Killing him would be a disaster,” Lance bit out.
“Killing him would end a blight on the earth,” she retorted.
Lance looked at her from beneath lowered lids. “Do I have to spell it out?
“Even if you kill him in secret, you’ll be found. The death of a vampire, especially Tepes, will call out an international manhunt. Every PNC on the planet will be questioned. Most will be detained. There will be no due process, there will be no understanding of the nonviolent species, there will be torment, pain, and lynchings unseen since the depths of Jim Crow.”
At his words, she uncoiled herself from the wall and paced, her face resembling carved marble in the moonlight. Her perfect posture stiffened even more and her upper lip twitched upward.
Ruthlessly, he continued. “First, you’ll make a martyr of him. Then you will start a massacre. No.” He shook his head. “There will be war.” He described the conflict he saw in his head.
The surviving PNCs would band together to object to mob justice. They would unleash their fury at not being able to marry whom they wanted, to being second-class citizens.
The humans would push back, right into a fully blown race war that left the world’s human population decimated and PNCs demonstrating the teeth of their own justice. He would be ripped to shreds by the very werewolves he took in.
Lance shook himself free of the scenario he described. “All that will come true,” he continued. “If you want to stop Tepes, he must be disgraced.”
She frowned and shifted her weight. After a long pause, she said, “He sells himself as a hero. He was a double agent in the war.”
Lance jerked in surprise. “Can you prove it?” Either she was lying to convince him, or she knew secrets no one knew.
“No.” She tossed her head in disgust. “All the documents had been destroyed.”
Convenient, but for now, it didn’t matter. Lance placed his hand on hers. “What would be worse for him? Death? Or humiliation?”
Her eyebrows lifted. Lance could see thoughts chase themselves behind her eyes, assessing his logic.
He waited, though his not-yet lover thought faster than he anticipated. The corner of her mouth tipped up.
“Talk to me.”
Chapter 18
“You have three minutes, before I snap your neck.”
In the privacy of his hotel suite, Radu pursed his lips at Roger. Blowing this assignment, being arrested, and having the Consortium post bail gave the media too much to talk about. Nothing should distract from his announcement tomorrow.
He adjusted his cuff links before tapping his fingertips together. Governor Green of Wisconsin had been most persuasive, but the governor of Nevada was due to call in ten minutes. In between Roger and that phone call, Radu had five minutes to do something about Soleil.
The battered were-tiger stiffened, and then ran his hand through his bloodstained hair. His mended eyes remained focused just above Radu’s eyebrows. “A vampire jumped in.”
Another vampire? Another one lived? Surprised, Radu tilted his head. This was most unanticipated. He’d lost so many of his undead family. The possibility of another stirred his curiosity.
“What did he look like? Did he say anything?”
“She. Dark, skinny, smelled familiar, but I couldn’t get a good read on her. Too much blood.” He took a sip from the take-out coffee cup he’d carried in with him.
Either Roger was a complete idiot pausing in the middle of the explanation that might save his life, or he really, really loved coffee. Impatient, Radu circled his hand in the air. The excitement about this revelation co
uld tip media attention back in Radu’s favor.
Reinforced with his caffeine, Roger laid out the events in a clear, concise fashion, concluding with “Said something about him being under her protection. I’ve never heard of such a thing, boss, have you?”
He finished with five seconds on his clock.
Radu leaned back and looked at the blacked-out skylight in the ceiling. “Only in the old, old days. We once cultivated humans like farmers did cattle.” He shook his head and steepled his fingers. “For some reason, mortals didn’t like that. There were no female territory holders.”
A few keystrokes on his slim laptop and the document he wanted appeared.
“Corbetti, I am e-mailing you a list written in 1815. At the Council of Vienna, I inventoried all known vampires. I want you to study it, tell me if you recognize any. By sunrise, I want to have on my desk a revised plan for dealing with your target. Understood?”
Roger nodded and his posture relaxed. “What about the charges?”
“Umar and Joe will take care of them,” Radu said. “We’ll avoid going to court. As far as the press is concerned, we are ensuring that you, a PNC and a stranger to us, are getting a fair trial in human courts. You will be found under the influence of human drugs. Understood?”
“Yes.” Roger scuttled to the door and exited as Umar entered.
The tiger refused to make eye contact with the were-hawk lawyer as he slunk out of the room.
“I miss the old days,” Umar Mernissi sighed as he helped himself to a glass of sparkling water.
“I know. Killing the help was satisfying, but it really is much too expensive now.” Radu shrugged. “Do you have anything we can use?”
“Mr. Soleil certainly moved around. He graduated from high school in Illinois and he’s an Eagle Scout. Of course”—Umar ran his fingers around the circumference of his glass—“I had to call a former staffer in Illinois government. She opened some closed records.”
Of course. Illinois politics, Radu thought. The confidential information must have cost dearly, but would be both accurate and timely.
“And?” Radu prompted, annoyed. Umar was rarely so slow.
“Until ten years ago, Lance Soleil supported a patient at a private nursing home in Chicago’s west suburbs. But never visited.”
Curious. Radu checked his watch.
Five minutes to the governor’s call.
“Umar, leave me.” He waited until the graceful Arab left, and then dialed his phone.
Radu’s fame unlocked doors, even ones that should stay closed.
“Why, yes, Dr. Daniels, I am that Radu Tepes.”
The time difference to Illinois meant he got the sanitarium just as the diurnal beings arrived, fresh and rested.
And chatty. Radu rubbed his forehead. He only had three minutes left.
He paused long enough to check his reflection. Everything still looked good, even at this late hour.
As he licked his teeth, Radu waited for the effusive Dr. Daniels to finish talking. Who knew that he’d inspire a lamia to go to medical school?
Radu cleared his throat and interrupted. “Pardon me, Dr. Daniels. I hate to rush you, but my time is limited. If I may? Thank you. The reason behind my call is I heard of a former patient of yours, one John Janté.”
Who knew that with only a little prodding, hero worship could override patient privacy? Umar shook his head at the lamia’s words tumbling through the receiver.
“A most unusual case, Mr. Tepes. Mr. Janté came to us in 1990, suffering from PNC-caused wounds that refused to close. Then in the course of a week about, hmm, nine years ago perhaps, he healed unexpectedly and completely. Very mysterious. But wonderful.” The doctor chuckled. “He moved to Europe, finished college, and I believe he works in Switzerland. We never did figure out what cured him or what was wrong with him. A medical miracle.”
Victorious, Radu ended the call with a minute to spare.
“Father Soleil,” he addressed the ceiling. “I have your weakness.” He pulled a nail buffer out from his drawer and went after that cursed thumbnail.
One last glance at his watch. The Nevada governor was now two minutes late, even though he had Umar’s number as well as Radu’s. That simply wouldn’t do for someone who wanted to be his running mate. He picked up the phone again and dialed Wisconsin.
“Governor Green? How would you like to be my vice president?”
Chapter 19
July 1988
Mutt had Jeff, Laurel had Hardy, John Janté had Lance Soleil.
They shouldn’t be friends. John’s family emigrated from France when he was eleven. Three years in the States and John still exuded Gallic temper, excitability, and a Frenchman’s charm. Lance prided himself on his marijuana-induced calm. John was staunchly Catholic. Lance was a lapsed Episcopalian. But Lance’s sophomore year had changed everything.
Lance’s summer had been spent growing. Towering over his classmates at six feet, the first four weeks of school consisted of paying back all the insults he’d swallowed since third grade. Now he was in control.
“Look at the shrimp.” Lance nudged his locker mate, Bill. “You’d think he owned the place. Let’s show him who rules here.”
John continued down the hall, his clear green eyes untroubled by Lance’s threats. Lance fumed. He towered over John by six inches.
“Hey, asshole!” he yelled. A quick shove and he had the frog’s full attention.
John’s first punch broke Lance’s nose. As blood spurted down Lance’s blue T-shirt, the second fist blacked an eye, rocking Lance back and into the lockers. Dazed, he slid to the floor, holding his nose. Before the teachers could even convene to interfere, John stood over Lance. Some sort of gold necklace around John’s neck distracted Lance.
“Ridiculous American, are you going to do something so stupid again?”
Holding his broken nose, Lance just stared up at the black-haired, compact fury ahead of him.
“Answer me, you moron.” John’s liquid accent turned Lance’s already hazed brain to mush.
“I guess not,” he answered.
“Very well.” A bloody hand reached down. “Is that the latest Badger comic in your backpack or are you a complete waste of air?”
The wrestling coach shoved his way through the crowd. “You two! We’re going to the principal’s office right now.” The wide man hauled them by their shoulders down the stairs and into the Danville High School administrative offices.
Mr. Fairchild, an enormous former semiprofessional football player, crossed his hands over his still-hard stomach.
“Fighting in the halls? I’m sadly disappointed, gentlemen.” Shaking his bald head in mock despair, he reached for the canoe paddle over his head. Lance, his nose still dripping, cringed.
John lifted an elegant eyebrow. “As am I, Mr. Fairchild. I had heard so many things about your so-called excellent American education system, yet I see that bullies run rampant throughout your halls.” His upper lip curled in perfect, European disdain at the canoe paddle. “And I see where the students learn their manners.”
The wrestling coach coughed. The principal’s secretary clutched her throat. Mr. Fairchild’s lips thinned as he met John’s cool gaze. For long moments, the office echoed with the faint sound of running feet out in the hall. Slowly, one corner of his mouth twitched, then the other. His entire face contorted until the man leaned forward, snorting and hooting until his face turned red.
“Gentlemen,” he wheezed. “This is the best laugh I’ve had for years. Thank you.”
From then on, Lance followed where John’s perfect body led.
John disapproved of the pot. “Lance, think of the ladies. Would you kiss someone who tasted like that? Puh-leeze.” He rolled his expressive green eyes.
Lance quit.
John approved of studying. “Lance. Conversation? Ever hear of it?”
John’s raised eyebrows sent a profound message. Lance got better grades.
John, the smoo
thie, knew how to talk to girls. “Lance. The ladies. Look them in the eyes and let them finish their sentences. Would you date a self-absorbed clod?” The stiff forefinger to Lance’s sternum got the point across.
Senior year, Lance asked Theresa Madden out on a date after staring at her chest for two years. Astonishingly enough, she had really pretty eyes and fascinating stories of her childhood living in Egypt with her news correspondent mother.
Lance never felt as complete as he did on the nights when he, Theresa, and John sat on John’s parents’ sofa and watched horror movies. The heady combination of Theresa’s Love’s Baby Soft and John’s Old Spice warmed his soul.
Last month, they finished their Eagle Scout projects. Last week, they graduated from high school. Today, they reveled in their first of many planned camping trips before Lance went to the U of I at Urbana-Champaign to study electrical engineering and John went back to Paris to study international law at the Sorbonne.
“Come visit me, my friend. You will love Paris.”
Lance started reading guidebooks.
And right now, John led him through the woods at Forest Glen Forest Preserve; they were like a mismatched Hansel and Gretel. The world, for all it was messed up and screwy, was ripe and beautiful and safe, theirs for a few hours.
Danville remained a human-only refuge from the hordes of non-humans flooding into the bigger cities in Illinois. Chicago actually had a lamia librarian in one of the city’s library branches. The state buzzed with the scandal. The citizens of Danville felt smug and secure in their corner of the state.
Lance and John spiraled out from their tidy camp by the riverbank for hours, talking, hiking, and picking up trash. At one point, they posed for a photo in front of their favorite river crossing. Lance’s new camera’s self-timer worked like a charm.
They continued on until John stopped dead. His nose shot up in the air. “What’s that?”
Lance’s sense of smell had always been less than stellar. “What’s what?” he asked, futilely sniffing.
“Honeysuckle. It’s the wrong season,” John said, and crashed through the underbrush, his nose leading the way. Soon he was out of sight.
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