Cross Your Heart

by Michele Bardsley

  Turn-blood: A human who’s been recently Turned into a vampire. If you’re less than a century old, you’re a Turn-blood.

  Turning: Vampires perpetuate the species by Turning humans. Unfortunately, only one in about ten humans actually makes the transition.

  Vedere prophecy: Astria Vedere predicted that in the twenty-first century a vampire queen would rule both vampires and lycans, and would also end the ruling power of the Ancients.

  The prophecy reads: “A vampire queen shall come forth from the place of broken hearts. The seven powers of the Ancients will be hers to command. She shall bind with the outcast, and with this union, she will save the dual-natured. With her consort, she will rule vampires and lycanthropes as one.”

  World Between Worlds: The place between this plane and the next, where there is a void. Some people can slip back and forth between this “veil.”

  Wraiths: Rogue vampires who banded together to dominate both vampires and humans. Since the defeat of the Ancients Koschei and Durga, they are believed to be defunct.

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next book

  in the Broken Heart series,

  Must Love Lycans

  by Michele Bardsley,

  coming soon from Signet Eclipse.

  Why was the man naked?

  I pressed my palms against the reinforced steel door, and peered through the small, square, shatter-proof glass window. Underneath it was an extremely narrow slot, which allowed sound to escape and let me speak to the patient inside. It was old school, but just one of many quirks about the Dante Clinic.

  However, I couldn’t quite speak.

  Heat flooded my cheeks.

  Good Lord.

  He was pacing—emulating a trapped animal in a cage. It bothered me how close the analogy was to the truth. For now, the safety of the staff and the other patients took precedence over his comfort. How soon he got out was entirely up to him.

  He was dirty and bruised. Scars crisscrossed his torso, and there were burns on his arms, too. He’d been tortured, though he seemed unconcerned about his injuries. In fact, I couldn’t sense if he was in any sort of physical pain at all. With my empathic abilities, I could literally know about a person’s pain, whether physical or emotional.

  He was tall—way more than six feet. His thick black hair reached his back, and swung like a dark curtain as he whipped around, his agitation growing with each long stride.

  I felt the snap of his anger. It reached out and tried to bite at me, but I pushed it away. I was used to fending off the emotions of others, but his were somehow different.

  It was wrong—so very, very wrong—to watch the bunch and flex of his muscles. Every part of the man was built, and not because he was a gym rat. That beautiful body was the natural result of working hard. I pegged him for a construction worker, or maybe an outdoors-man. I could easily see him guiding backpackers through dense forests and then scaling a mountain.

  I resisted looking at his genitals. For two seconds. Oh, good heavens. He was huge, and his penis wasn’t even erect. Do not imagine him with a hard-on. Then I totally did. Heat swept through me again. What the hell was wrong with me? I was behaving so unprofessionally—even though I was doing it mentally. I needed to get focused and back on task.

  Every so often he would pause to punch at the walls. He was also cursing—in German.

  The walls and floor were padded. The cell—and I cringed to call it that—had no furniture. The place was often referred to as the “induction” room because sometimes new clients needed time and space to calm down before being assigned a residency. Their suites were no less secure, but when an angry psychiatric patient threatened to rip your head off—he might actually try to do it.

  He stopped in the middle of the room, facing the door.

  His head rose, and I saw the flare of his nostrils. He was . . . scenting?

  God, his eyes were so green. Like chips of jade.

  “I smell you,” he said.

  Through the door?

  He rushed toward me so fast he was nearly a blur, and slammed his entire body against the steel. The metal actually groaned.

  I squeaked and backed away, forgetting that I was the one in charge here. Could potent masculinity reach through two feet of steel to taunt me? Or was it the insistence of my libido to replay the images of his gorgeous body? I shivered. He was just a man. A man in pain. A man who needed my help.

  His face was pressed against the glass, and he studied me with a cold expression. “Let me out,” he said. “Now.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  His lips thinned. “What’s yours?”

  “Kelsey.” Shit. Way to let him know I was in charge. Usually it was my first tactic to make patients feel comfortable, but I got the feeling he was too much an alpha personality. I straightened and put my shoulders back. “I’m Dr. Morningstone.”

  His gaze dropped to my breasts, which I had sorta thrust out there in an effort to create my “in-charge” body language. I couldn’t back off now, so I tried to pretend that his gaze wasn’t wandering over my boobs, or that I noticed his inspection.

  “Let me out, Kelsey.” His voice had gone low and smoky. My belly clenched as my disused girly parts perked up. Stop that, I demanded. He’s a patient.

  “Do you know where you are?” I asked.

  One eyebrow quirked.

  I flushed at the silent chastisement. I was screwing up this introduction all over the place. I had to get control of myself, the situation, and him. “You’re at the Dante Clinic. You were brought in last night from another facility.”

  “Another facility?”

  I nodded. I hadn’t been told much, only that he’d been rescued from a private laboratory. The clinic’s namesake and benefactor, Jarron Dante, had made it clear this man was a priority client. I shuddered to think about the kind of experimentation he’d gone through, much less why he’d been chosen to be a guinea pig. I hadn’t asked more questions about his previous situation because: one, you didn’t question a billionaire; and, two, the less I knew, the less I had to wrestle with my conscience about this job and all that it entailed.

  “You don’t remember?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know your name?”

  “Damian.”

  “Is that your name,” I asked, “or is it the name your captors used?”

  “Captors.” He made the word sound like both a question and a statement. He pushed away from the door, his frustration bubbling through my psychic shields. I returned to the window to watch him pace. He was frowning and rubbing his temples, obviously trying to remember what he’d forgotten.

  Which was his entire life.

  “As soon as you’re ready, we’ll get you a shower, some clothes, and a hot meal. Then we can talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk,” he said. “I want to leave.”

  “Where would you go?”

  For the first time, I saw panic enter his gaze. His anger shot out again, and, wrapped deeply within it, a terrible sorrow. It was hard to stave off his emotions. They were so strong, and so . . . strange. Animalistic.

  Primal.

  Like him.

  “When will you return?” He sounded as if he were chewing gravel. This man was not used relying on others. I was sure it chafed his ego to ask even that simple question.

  “Soon,” I promised.

  He nodded. Then he turned away from me. If my gaze lingered a little too long on his buttocks . . . Well, I guess I’d just have to live with the guilt of ogling a beautiful man.

  “We sure got a live one, Doc,” said Marisol Brunes. “And Lord ’a’ mercy, he’s a hunk and a half. Too bad he’s nuts.”

  I looked up from my clipboard so Mari could see how unthrilled I was with her assessment. I liked Mari. She was short and chubby with silver hair and twinkling blue eyes, but tough as nails. She was sorta like a biker version of Mrs. Claus. She’d been at the clinic since opening day more than ten years
ago, and despite her loyalty to my predecessor, she’d been kinder to me than the rest of the staff. I was younger than of all them, and certainly younger than Dr. Danforth Laurence, who’d been a renowned mental-health researcher and a well-respected psychiatrist.

  Me? Not so much.

  After staying silent under my chastising glare, Mari finally caved.

  “I know,” she said with a sigh. “Derogatory language is a subtle but damaging way to assert our superiority over people who deserve nothing less than our compassion and assistance.”

  “Glad you’ve been listening.”

  I looked back down at the paperwork, but I knew she was rolling her eyes. I’d taken over the Dante Clinic only three weeks ago—four days after Dr. Laurence had died unexpectedly in his sleep. Dr. Laurence had been in his late fifties, and had died from cardiac arrest. We should all be lucky to go that peaceably. There were worse ways to die.

  My stomach took a dive as an unwanted image flashed: the knife in my hand, the gleam in Robert’s eye, the blood spilling over both of us.

  No. You will not go there, Kel.

  I stepped off that particular dark mental path, and circled back to something less soul crushing.

  The Dante Clinic was a privately funded psychiatric facility that supported the care and well-being of clients handpicked by the facility’s benefactor, Jarron Dante. No one knew why he chose the people he did—only that that most of the cases were hard-core and the patients had no families. Many of them had been homeless, locked up in state facilities. Dante picked up the considerable tab for high-quality care. At least until he hired me. Surely my reputation had stained that of the institution and its accomplishments. After what had happened last year, no one would hire me to give therapy to a dog. But here I was, in charge of the whole enchilada, which was unusual for a psychotherapist, especially one so new to the profession and who’d already fallen into the low esteem of her peers.

  The facility was one of Dante’s refurbished mansions. Located just outside Broken Arrow, it was a huge towering Gothic structure plopped into the middle of a heavily wooded ten acres. It looked like Dracula’s castle and operated like a king’s palace. There were never more than ten residents in the facility. With Damian added to the roster, we now had six clients. Every client had a personal maid and butler, who also served as certified nursing assistants and, when necessary, guards. They were all black belts in karate, and they behaved in military fashion. Nice enough people, I guess, but a little on the scary side. The patient suites were sumptuous, but secure. If patients got out of line, privileges were revoked, and in the three weeks I’d been here, no client wanted to be without their Egyptian cotton sheets, or nightly hot cocoa and scones. Meals were taken together in a dining room the size of a football field—or so it seemed to me.

  The salary was generous, the living quarters luxurious, and the position prestigious.

  I shouldn’t have gotten the job.

  No one would hire me after the fiasco in Oklahoma City. My own mother rescinded her invitation to last year’s holiday gathering, and had not issued another invitation to anything, not even her local book signings. She no longer bothered with the perfunctory monthly phone calls, either—the ones her secretary scheduled so Margaret Morningstone could check off “speak to youngest daughter and make her feel inadequate” from her list.

  My disgrace had tainted her, and she hadn’t forgiven me.

  I got a lump in my throat.

  I wanted to believe I had stopped seeking Mother’s approval years ago. But somewhere inside me was the rejected little girl who wanted her unconditional love. She had spent my entire life pointing out numerous times that no emotion was unconditional, least of all love.

  After Mother’s very public rebuff (on a national talk show, thank you), my brother and sister followed suit. We’d never been particularly close anyway. I’d been a surprise child, one born nearly eighteen years after my sister. Our father died when I was only two. My mother’s psychotherapy practice was already well established, as was her career as a lecturer and author. Not long after my father died, Mother hit the New York Times bestseller list, and her entire career went platinum gold.

  I was raised by a series of nannies. While I was in college, Mother married Ted Portshire. I liked him. He was the only one still talking to me; I admired his ability to blithely ignore Mother’s edicts. He was as cheerful as my mother was dour, although she was a shining star when in a public venue.

  “You look like you need a Starbucks,” said Mari. “A triple shot.”

  I laughed. “Yeah. Maybe a triple shot of vodka.”

  She grinned wickedly. “ ’Atta girl.”

  I signed off on the entrance paperwork for Damian No-Last-Name and handed her the clipboard. “I’ll be in my office until my two o’clock with Mr. Danvers.”

  “Good luck,” she said sympathetically. “Sven caught him cutting out paper feathers again.”

  “Oh, jeez. He’s already sprained his ankle jumping off tables.” I paused. “Do you have the shock bracelets on him?”

  She nodded, and I saw the distaste in her gaze. I felt the same about the bracelets, but they were effective. Until the guy stopped believing a demon wanted him to fly or we found a more palatable way to keep him grounded, he would have to wear the bracelets. The clinic employed many experimental psychiatric tools. I was not sold on the bracelets, but Jarron Dante insisted. He insisted on a lot of things that made me uncomfortable—however, I couldn’t deny he seemed to genuinely care about the well-being of our clients. It had not escaped my attention that he knew how very much I needed this job, not just for the paycheck and the living quarters, but also for the opportunity to redeem myself in the profession. He was a man who knew how to exploit the vulnerabilities of others; he was an effective manipulator. To be fair, though, he didn’t have to twist my arm to take the job.

  As I said good-bye to Mari and headed toward my first-floor office, I thought about Mr. Danvers. He blamed all his bad behavior on a demon he called Malphas, who supposedly took the form of a crow. He claimed the demon, which was inside him, wanted to return to hell by flying through a portal located in a Tulsa hotel—and the demon wanted to take Mr. Danvers with him. I can Google just as well as anyone, so it was easy enough to figure out how my patient had come up with both the name and the ideology behind Malphas. It was on Wikipedia, for heaven’s sake. A hellmouth in a hotel was a good twist, though.

  What I was trying to understand was why Mr. Danvers had created the delusion. Right now, I was still building trust between myself and the patients. It would probably take a while for Mr. Danvers to reveal anything that might allow me the insight I needed to help him.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in psychic phenomenon. After all, I was an empath; I could feel other people’s emotions. It was one of the reasons I became a psychotherapist. I knew how to tease out the hidden nuances from the main emotion. Someone who was angry almost always had strands of sorrow or hurt or abandonment woven into their fury.

  Nothing was ever as it seemed.

  My ability usually made it easier to connect with patients, and to help lessen their distress. Unfortunately, Mr. Danvers was a particularly difficult case. Truth and sincerity emanated off him in waves. That was the problem with dealing with delusional patients—they believed absolutely in the reality they’d created.

  Not long after opening my practice, I’d learned by sheer accident that I could also absorb emotions. After I figured out this new facet of my ability, I started using it to just take away the pain, the anger, the confusion, even the crazy. I didn’t realize I’d made myself vulnerable, or that I’d taken away the ability for my patients to work through their issues. They didn’t stop engaging in the destructive behaviors that had led them to my door—they just didn’t feel bad about those actions anymore. I’d given them a magic pill. And I’d taken all their poison into myself.

  I was already emotionally off-kilter when Robert Mallard became my pat
ient. Somehow, he’d been able to creep under my skin, get inside my head, and—no. I couldn’t go there. It had been a year. I had to let go. I had to move on.

  I thought about the mysterious and very naked Damian. I picked up my phone and hit the speed dial for Sven’s cell. He had an office, but he was never in it. He was a prowler, someone constantly on the move trying to anticipate problems. He was very good at his job, but not much of a talker. He was also way scarier than anyone else here, except for Jarron Dante.

  “Dubowski.”

  “Hi, uh, Sven. It’s Dr. Morningstone. Will you escort our newest patient to his suite?”

  He was silent for so long, I said, “Um, Sven?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  “He’s much calmer. He needs a shower and someone to see about his injuries. Mr. Dante made it very clear he’s a priority, so the sooner we get him integrated, the sooner we can help him.”

  Sven snorted in obvious disbelief. “Fine.”

  A second later, I heard the dial tone. “Nice talking to you, too,” I muttered. Then I hung up the receiver.

  “Dr. Morningstone.”

  Startled by the deep male voice, I gasped and shoved back from the desk. When I saw the imposing figure of Jarron standing in the doorway, I took a shuddering breath. I remembered quite clearly shutting my door; I hadn’t even noticed that he’d opened it. How long had he been standing there observing me?

  He was a big man—a linebacker in Armani. He had wavy black hair, stormy gray eyes, and chiseled features. The scariest thing about Jarron was that I never got emotions off him. He was either completely emotionless, which was impossible, or exercised iron control over his emotional state. I believed he was very capable of encapsulating pesky emotions.