by Connie Hall
Takala froze, holding up her right foot. She saw it now. An area four-by-four feet. At first glance it looked like the rest of the floor, but on closer inspection she noticed the rock had been cut and replaced. Directly above it, she saw four AK-47s mounted to the ceiling, aimed at the spot. One step on the floor and she was Swiss cheese.
“These guys are real humanitarians,” she said snidely. She gingerly backed up and called to the elderly Frenchman, “Thank you for saving my life, sir.”
“Please, just get us out.”
Takala kept her distance from the booby trap and approached the elderly man. “Who did this to you?”
“Vampires. Never believed in that stuff before being forced here. Oh my God, we’re all going to die! They’ll kill us all!” Hysteria clutched him, and he rocked his head from side to side, as if the motion helped him cope with all he’d experienced. “You have to get us out before they wake up. Please, please let me out of here!”
“Do you know where they’re sleeping? Did they mention it?” Takala asked as she broke the ropes with her bare hands, aware of the stinging rawness of her skin.
“No. They just leave.” The man staggered, then gained his legs and ran out of the cavern, still naked and shaking his head. Takala was certain Striker would intercept him.
She moved to the girl next. She fell into Takala’s arms. Takala gently set her down and propped her against the rocks.
“Did anyone hear the names of the vampires?”
“Laeyar was one,” a young man bound next to the girl said, his accent so thick Takala had to really concentrate to understand him. “He’s the leader.”
Takala kept her eyes on his face, for she didn’t want to embarrass him by looking at his naked body. “Did this Laeyar let the serpent shifter come here to feed?”
“Yes. Laeyar let him. He’s killed one of us every three days. Laeyar goes out hunting and brings more of us.”
“Please, let me out,” a woman of about fifty pleaded. She was a bleached blonde and spoke perfect English. Her eyes were swollen and encrusted from crying. Takala counted five bites on her neck alone.
After freeing the young man, she worked on the ropes of the blonde and asked, “Have you heard the name Raithe mentioned among them?”
The woman looked too beaten and frayed to do more than nod.
The young man was supporting the girl, probably his girlfriend, as he said, “Laeyar brags that he dines with this Raithe person.”
Abruptly, a blinding light appeared and B.O.S.P. cleaners materialized. Striker must have called them. She noticed that one of them held the hand of the elderly man who had tried to leave. The agony and fear had vanished from his face. He looked only content and dazed. He was fully clothed now, too.
The victims cowered, frightened.
Takala said, “Please, they won’t hurt you. They’re only here to help.” She left out that they wouldn’t have a memory of this horrible event in their lives. Definitely a good thing.
When all the humans were untied, one of the cleaners, a man with buckteeth and chubby cheeks, who looked an awful lot like a beaver shifter, approached her. “We can take care of that for you.” He nodded to her injured hands.
“Any aftereffects from those crystals?”
He grinned. “Only that you’ll feel great. Pure crystal energy does that. No ill effects.”
“In that case, knock yourself out.”
He held up a small clear tubular apparatus that looked like a wide wand. Weird glowing pink gel and tiny pyramid-shaped crystals bubbled inside. He hit a button on the end, and a lilac-colored light sprayed over her hands. It felt like a scrub brush going over her skin, uncomfortable but not unbearable. She grimaced; then it was over. No pain. The wounds cauterized in seconds. Her skin miraculously healed right before her eyes.
“Wow, I want one of those.” She pointed to the wand. “Can you put me on the B.O.S.P. Christmas list?”
His grin widened and he checked her out. “No, but you can be on my own special list.” His lips twitched with a rodent tic.
She didn’t think she had led the guy on, but obviously he thought otherwise. Male testosterone, be it Supe or human! Who could figure it out? Not her; she stayed lost.
“Thanks, I gotta go.” She hurried away and saw one of the cleaners zap the booby trap.
The molecular structure of the AKs shifted, blurred, then disappeared. Just like that. Booby trap annihilated. Too bad cleaners weren’t available to fix her love life.
She went in search of Striker and found him in the subway tunnel. He was talking on the phone, his form all in shadows. His phone light cast an eerie yellow radiance over his pale face and neck, making him look like a handsome ghoul.
When he noticed her, he closed the phone with a quick snap and stood there, a motionless monolith in the shadows.
“State-secret stuff?” she teased, staring at his shadowy face.
“Something like that.”
The gloomy darkness seemed to amplify the tension between them, and she could actually feel his presence prickling the nerve endings of her skin. She stopped a safe four feet from him and said, “So, what happened back there?”
“Nothing.”
“Yeah, right. Know what I think? I’ve found your one true weakness.”
“Really? Enlighten me.”
“Human blood.”
One moment there was plenty of distance between them; the next he was up in her face, his cool breath brushing her lips. “Not any human blood, just yours.” He bent, picked up one hand and sniffed it. “I can still smell it, bonne bouche, ambrosia, nectar of the gods.” His lips brushed the back of her hand, sending tingles up her arm, into her breasts.
Takala wanted to pull back, step away, but she just stood there, entranced by his nearness, caught in the vibration of his voice.
He stroked her hand with his thumb while he used his other hand to capture her chin and raise it. He stood staring into her eyes while he gently traced her jawline, her lips. Hot yearning poured down her throat, into her belly, and settled between her thighs. God, she wanted him to touch her all over.
He stroked her lips for a moment and heaved a loud sigh. Then he whispered, “You are so lethal.”
A second ticked by, her heart pounding. Any moment he’d close that two inches and kiss her. She could feel the sexual longing between them draining the oxygen from the air. Abruptly, he dropped his hand and stepped back.
Why hadn’t he kissed her? Sad thing was, she had wanted him to, dammit! When her heart settled down and she had her resolve to stay away from men squarely in place, she said, “That’s right, and don’t forget it. And the blood in my body, I like to keep there. Got it?”
“I promise you, Takala, I will never drink your blood.” His voice held that dangerous facile edge that hid all his emotion—if he felt any to hide.
She couldn’t tell if he was being serious or not, or if this was one of the ways he captivated and charmed female victims. She heard the nervous catch in her own voice as she said, “And I can promise to never let you.”
“Good. Then we are in agreement.”
“Miracle of miracles. First time for everything.” She couldn’t see his face in the shadows, but she could feel his smile.
Had he meant that bit about her being lethal and never drinking her blood? Like she was just a nuisance he had to fend off? She should feel glad about it, but she found herself taking exception to it. For some reason, it made her feel worse than the loser she already was when it came to men. She heard Akando saying, “You scare me.” Now she had a vampire on the run. Maybe it was her pride, but she could feel a need building in her to seduce Striker, bring him to his knees, make him take back those words.
“This Laeyar dude,” she said, her voice cool. “We have to find his den before sunset. Is it around here somewhere?”
“I’ve had my agents searching for it with no luck. Every vampire knows better than to keep his den near his food source, but we had to m
ake certain. The danger of being killed by enemies and vampire hunters is too great.”
“There are really vampire hunters?”
“Plenty. B.O.S.P. alone has bounties on over two hundred that I know of.”
“Oh.” Takala had never met a vampire hunter. They were a loner breed, evidently. But at the moment, she thought they each deserved a Medal of Honor. She hated to ask her next question. “Are there other dens like this one?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Some vampires are unscrupulous when it comes to feeding.”
Revulsion twisted inside Takala. Just the thought of humans being treated and slaughtered like cattle made her sick.
She asked, “You got any idea how we can find him?”
“The only thing we can do is come back here at dusk when he returns to feed. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“To a hotel.”
All sorts of lurid unbidden things popped into Takala’s head…and they all involved a bed. No, no, no. He was just dropping her there to get rid of her. He grabbed her hand, and Takala felt dizzy as the world sped by. But it didn’t stop those lurid images from coming back, and she ground her teeth.
Chapter 11
“This isn’t a hotel,” Takala said as he zipped the car into a parking spot.
“You need calories more than sleep.”
“How do you know?”
“Your stomach growls like a den of lions. There is a sidewalk café here that is the best in Paris. Perhaps we can silence your hunger for a while.”
“Sorry to be a nuisance.” Takala smelled the delicious scent of fresh-baked bread wafting through the heater vent and realized she was starving.
“Nuisance doesn’t quite cover it.” He cast her one of those unreadable guarded glances that gave nothing away.
She made a face at his shoulder as they got out and walked down a busy block. Icy February wind whipped past her face. The smell of city exhaust mingled with the tempting scent of French cooking. She could almost taste the pounds of butter.
This must have been Café Row, because she counted six cafes before he paused at one. It was small and quaint, Bella la Table. A yellow and blue awning waved over a circle of wrought-iron tables. Despite the cold, people huddled down in seats, drinking espresso, eating, reading papers or books, or chatting. The restaurant’s inside dining area looked as busy and full as the outside. Behind the etched plate-glass windows, harried waiters cleaned tables and took orders.
“You mind the cold?” he asked in that commanding tone of his as if he knew the answer and only asked the question out of politeness.
“I certainly wouldn’t come to a Paris sidewalk café and not sit outside. So, no, please let’s sit here.” She motioned to the outdoor tables.
Striker nodded his approval and snapped his fingers at a waiter. He motioned them to sit anywhere. Striker chose a table beneath the awning and sat in a chair where the sun couldn’t touch him.
She said, “I thought sunlight didn’t bother you.”
“I can function in it, but if I have a choice, I prefer not to get a tan.”
“Ha, you do have a sense of humor.”
“Only since meeting you.” He grinned, and it warmed the empty depths of his eyes, charmed his irresistibly attractive face.
The warmth in his expression tugged at her chest as he pulled the chair out for her. Then he pushed her up to the table. Always the gentleman vampire. She bestowed a thankful smile on him.
A waiter dropped two menus on the table and left abruptly, saying something she couldn’t catch. The menu was written in French, and she tried to pick out the few Parisian foods she knew, like crêpes, boeuf bourguignon, chateaubriand. Something called poulet à la diable sounded good: deviled chicken in fried butter. She felt Striker watching her, and she glanced up to see he hadn’t picked up his menu.
She realized he didn’t eat food, and he’d stopped here for her benefit only. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“You don’t eat.”
“Oh, I eat.” He stared hard at her neck as if it might be a morsel on his plate.
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” His brows moved a quarter of an inch as he frowned. Then he picked up the menu and glanced down at it, ennui settling over his face.
“Don’t you miss the taste of food? I’d rather be dead if I couldn’t enjoy eating.”
“One adapts and finds pleasure in other things.” One of his intense stares reached across the table and caressed her.
A tingle warmed her belly, and she felt herself being drawn to him. No, she wasn’t feeling anything for this vampire. Was she?
Thankfully, the waiter returned at that moment and leveled an impatient look at both of them.
Striker ordered an espresso, and Takala started with a ham and cheese crêpe, poulet à la diable, a baguette with plenty of butter, an espresso, and she requested the waiter return for a dessert order.
The guy looked at her like she’d lost her mind if she thought he was ordering all that food. Then Striker said something to him in perfect French and he hurried off, completely chastened.
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were my wife and pregnant.”
Takala found herself grinning. That was her favorite excuse for her appetite. She felt obliged to say “Thank you.”
Silence settled between them. Takala inhaled the scent of the baking bread and something delectable and sugary, like chocolate cream pie. She wondered what it was so she could order it. She drew in the smell and said, “I wish they could bottle this. It smells like my grandmother’s kitchen. She’s a great cook.”
“She bakes often?”
“Oh, yes, it’s her therapy, I think. She raised me and my sisters. We were a lot to handle.” Takala grinned at the memory. “Well, I guess I was the real problem.”
“Rebellious, were you?”
“When I thought I could get away with it, but my grandmother always found me out. When you have the Guardian raising you, it’s pretty tough getting away with anything. It makes you ingenious.” She grinned.
“I can see you pushing the limits. Tell me, what did you do?”
“Everything.” Takala rolled her eyes, then said, “I remember casting a magical spell once to block her extrasensory powers. I burned up my room instead. A candle got out of hand—boy, did I spend a long time in the sweat cave.” Takala grimaced at the memory.
“Sweat cave?”
“Our prayer cave and my punishment. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, fasting and praying, contemplating my bad behavior. I can see my grandmother now. All she had to do was point to the door, and I knew my fate.”
“But I can tell by your voice that you do not resent it very much.”
“No, I know now she did it for my own good. I respect my grandmother—love her. She was there for us when we needed her. She wouldn’t have left us like my mother did.” Takala heard the resentment in her own voice. When she saw his steady gaze boring into her, as if he were probing her for more information, she realized she’d said more than she wanted.
Suddenly she felt self-conscious, a rare happenstance in her life. She stopped talking and observed the couple next to them. Middle-aged and bored with each other, their noses were buried in the morning paper. She envisioned herself and Akando in those very same chairs. It probably would have ended that way if she had forced him into a loveless marriage. How many affairs would he have had by the time they were fifty? Would she have been so dense she wouldn’t have known he had cheated on her? Tears came to Takala’s eyes, and she had to blink them back.
“What is wrong, Takala?” His brow creased slightly in concern, and he reached across the table to touch her hand.
“Nothing.” She liked when he spoke her name. It added a smooth flair to it, and right now she needed to hear her name on another man’s lips. She grew aware of his touch, his wide hand covered hers, the weight of his long fingers
curling around her own.
When she gazed down at their touching hands, he seemed to grow uncomfortable and pulled back.
Takala felt the loss of his touch right away, and it left an empty sensation on her skin.
A pregnant pause settled between them, and they gazed everywhere but at each other.
Then he said, “Does your grandmother know you have been searching for your mother?”
Takala studied the menu, staring blankly at it. “No, and I’m not telling her. My people disowned my mother. It is against our laws to even acknowledge she exists.”
“But you are breaking the laws?”
“I just wanted to locate her, get her side of the story.” Was he trying to make her feel guilty about wanting to meet her mother?
“Did you ever stop to think that those laws are in place to protect others from the person who has been abjured? Perhaps it is for your own safety that you follow them.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you.” She gripped the menu so tightly it trembled in her hands.
“Then why have you not yet told Culler who you are?”
“How do you know that I didn’t?”
“I read your mind.”
Takala snapped, “Stay out of my head. This is personal.”
“I hoped to spare you some pain.”
“Too late.” Takala stood up and slammed the menu down on the table. “Where’s the restroom?” Before he could answer her, she found the universal sign pointing inside. “I see the way.”
Without another word, she strode off, boots pounding the concrete tiles. What right did he have to lecture her on how to live her life? Maybe she would never tell Lilly Smith. Takala wasn’t absolutely certain that Lilly was her mother. Yes, Lilly looked like the picture and exhibited the powers of an egtonha, but Takala just couldn’t believe the woman who shared her blood was so reprehensible. And until she was absolutely convinced Lilly was her mother, she’d keep the truth to herself. Still, even if she were certain, she might not ever tell her. But it was her decision to make, and she didn’t need Striker’s advice.