All That Bleeds

by Kimberly Frost

  “Mr. Merrick,” she said breathlessly. He smelled spicy and masculine. Unaccountably delicious. She was almost overcome by the urge to touch him. Was it the adrenaline rush that made him seem so attractive? She extended her hand. “Please accept my thanks—”

  Merrick’s warm hand closed around hers just as Mr. Clark’s voice boomed down the corridor. “No! Let her go, Merrick.”

  With his free hand, Merrick slid his sunglasses down, revealing eyes so dark they seemed to have no color at all, as black and gorgeous as midnight.

  “This is an unusual party. First, a demon. Now, an angel.”

  “I’m not an angel.”

  “Me either, as it turns out,” he said with a slow smile, then he opened his mouth slightly to touch the point of his tongue to the tip of a fang.

  He’s ventala, she thought as fear sliced through her veins. Alissa stiffened.

  Apparently amused by her surprised reaction to his fangs, Merrick cocked a mocking eyebrow. Alissa tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it. She blinked as the muzzle of Mr. Clark’s gun appeared, pressing against Merrick’s temple.

  “I accept your thanks, Miss—?” Merrick’s deep voice hummed over her skin. His breath smelled like mint leaves, making her breathe deeper.

  It’s a trap. Everything about him lures in his prey.

  “Miss North,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as her heart beat a riot in her chest.

  His gaze flicked to her neck. She wondered if he could see her pulse throbbing there. Would he sink those teeth into her throat? Bleed her dry? He might, but he seemed so in control of himself. How was that possible if the ventala were just animals in the face of a muse’s blood? She knew she should draw back from him, but she didn’t want to.

  Innocence and mystery don’t last long in each other’s company. It was a quote she’d read long ago. She could taste its warning. Don’t forget what he is.

  “V3 bullets, Merrick. Unless you’d like parts of your brain leaking out of the holes I put in your skull, you’ll let her go,” Mr. Clark said.

  Alissa grimaced. She was grateful to have the bodyguard with her, but she didn’t want more violence. “This isn’t how the night should end, Mr. Clark. We’re in Mr. Merrick’s debt,” she said.

  Merrick’s smile widened. “Beautiful manners to match the beautiful face.” His low voice sent a wave of heat through her. She was attracted to him. Still. Which was foolish and made her angry with herself.

  “I bet your boarding school education was expensive,” Merrick said.

  Yes, very expensive. And where did someone like you get educated? Charm school for killers? Her lips were dry, but she didn’t dare lick them. She wouldn’t tempt him. Her blood alone should have been a temptation that he couldn’t resist. And yet he did, standing there so calmly. How? With a gun pressed to his head, no less.

  She swallowed slowly. “If you returned my hand, I think it would ease Mr. Clark’s mind.”

  Merrick stared into her eyes. “Mr. Clark’s. Not yours, huh?” The corners of his mouth turned up in a mocking smile.

  Be still. He’s toying with you.

  “Too bad I was so late to the party, Miss North. If I’d gotten here earlier, I could’ve asked you to dance.” His dark gaze seemed to light her blood on fire.

  “It wouldn’t have made a difference. No matter when you’d arrived, I would have had to say no.” She cleared her throat. “Let go of my hand please,” she said more firmly.

  “Not a peach to be had,” he murmured, letting her hand fall from his. He moved past her in an instant, leaving Mr. Clark’s gun pointing at empty air. When Clark noticed, he lowered it.

  Relieved, and yet disappointed, Alissa turned to watch Merrick walk through the gaping hole that he’d blown in the front of the mansion to gain entry.

  “Why did he come to save us if he’s one of them?” she asked.

  “He didn’t come to save anyone here,” Mr. Clark said. “The demon was in the Varden last night, slaughtering them. Merrick came for vengeance. He’s an enforcer. A common killer.”

  Alissa stared at the velvety darkness into which Merrick had disappeared. Certainly a killer, but not common.

  Chapter 1

  Spring 2012

  A door slammed, assaulted by the wind that hissed through the house’s east wing. Strands of moonlight stretched toward Alissa’s ankles as she swept down the corridor. She wanted to check on her father one last time before leaving for the Xenakis party.

  Her dad had worsened again, which she continued to conceal along with the fact that she was using her magic illegally to help him. If anyone found out, everything she’d worked for would be lost. And so would he.

  No one knows, and no one will.

  A lone leaf blew across the floor. She walked on, faster, hoping that this setback was temporary, caused by the upcoming anniversary of her mother’s death.

  The memory of that day flashed in her mind and Alissa winced. She saw the steaming mug in her small hands. Her mother had been upset, so Alissa had made herbal tea for her. At twelve years old, Alissa already had a keen sense that being a muse involved nurturing the gentle parts of people, not only to foster their creativity but also to soothe their self-doubt. She liked to practice because she wanted to be as great a muse as her mother and grandmother.

  Alissa had knocked softly on her mom’s door and announced herself before opening it. At first when she’d seen the dangling body, she hadn’t understood. The luminous limbs that had been sculpted and painted by countless artists hung limp and lifeless. The face that had graced hundreds of magazine covers was blue and swollen. Not a sound or a breath had escaped Alissa. She’d backed from the doorway and walked, trancelike, downstairs. Instinctively, she’d avoided her father, protective of her mother’s image even while in shock. She’d gone to the garage and found her mother’s driver and Etherlin Security bodyguard, Mr. Sorges. While they were home, he was always there, smoking, tinkering with the car, and occasionally cleaning firearms.

  Alissa had told him in a shaky voice that her mother needed help, and he’d rushed inside, taking charge. As the house erupted, Alissa had sat silently in the garage, holding the cooling tea that would never be drunk.

  The memory faded, and Alissa tapped on the door to her father’s suite of rooms. In the time before her mother died, he’d jokingly called them kingly accommodations. When Alissa had knocked as a child, he used to call out, “Enter the king’s chambers.” The laughter in his hearty voice had easily traveled through the solid oak doors. She remembered how much fun it had been to slip into his work sanctuary, which had been decorated with rich tapestries and ornately beaded pillows from Morocco and India. Colored scarves in jewel tones had been draped over the chairs and chaises, while netting and silks had dripped from the bed frame, creating an exotic hideaway for a child to play within.

  Tonight her father didn’t answer when she knocked, which wasn’t unusual. He was often in his own world now. She pushed the door open and shivered at the gust of cold air. He had the balcony doors thrown wide. Pages blew over the barren floor where there had once been a Persian rug. So many of the room’s comforts and ornamentations had been torn to pieces and burned in her father’s fireplace, as though no matter how high the central heating was turned up, he could never quite get warm.

  More than once his impromptu fires had nearly spread to the bedroom or the roof. Careless or intentional? Alissa wasn’t completely sure.

  As she moved into the room, she frowned at not finding him. There were shards of broken glass in the corner and a sticky film of red wine. Her heart pounded like a horse thundering from the gate. Nothing congealed or thick. No blood, but how had he gotten the bottle? And had he done anything more with the broken glass?

  She hurried across the bedroom and spotted him lying prostrate on the floor. Her heart nearly stopped. Alissa rushed to him and knelt, feeling his face. Still warm. Still breathing. She exhaled in relief, then noticed he’d used the wall as
a canvas for poetry and ramblings. In his drunkenness, he’d knocked over his inkwell and dragged his fingers through it, creating a swirling black mess, like a sinister finger painting. She flushed, embarrassed by the work Mrs. Carlisle would have to do to clean it. The housekeeper wouldn’t enlist the help of the maids for fear that people would learn how unwell he still was. When she returned from the party, Alissa would try to clean most of it before Mrs. Carlisle arrived in the morning.

  “Oh, Dad,” she said, gently nudging him.

  He jerked awake. “Ah, Persephone’s twin,” he murmured, his eyes peering through strands of unwashed hair.

  “There’s no Persephone. She was just a myth, remember?” Some legends were true. Some weren’t. Her father had difficulty keeping them straight in his mind.

  “This dagger,” he said, brandishing his fountain pen near her throat and causing her to draw back. “Not sharper than a sword, but with a purpose as true as any.” He exhaled stale wine and she grimaced.

  “Dad,” she said. “It’s cold on the floor. Get in bed.” She squeezed his forearm. “Please. I’m going to Calla and Dimitri’s. I can’t be late.”

  “That blasted Hades. Red-eyed demon. I’ll cut him,” he said, slashing the air.

  With more prodding, she got him to his feet and helped him stumble past his scarred writing desk. Once a beautiful piece from Shanghai, it had been a gift from a devoted reader. Now his admirers had scattered to the four winds—along with his sense.

  She led him to the bed, ignoring his mumbled ravings.

  “I’ll skewer his black heart. I’ll reclaim Persephone from the underworld.” He looked at his pen as Alissa tucked the blankets around him. “By your eyes, I can read your thoughts, and you’re right. Perfectly right. This dagger is not nearly sharp enough. It will take Excalibur, to be sure. Gather words for a crown of poetry to rest upon her head. The Lady of the Lake is not easily impressed. Not easily. Nor should any such as she be.” He closed his watery blue eyes, and Alissa slipped the pen from his grip.

  “Rest,” she whispered, infusing her voice with persuasive power.

  For a moment, his eyes flickered open and his gaze was clear. “Alissa?”

  A smile spread across her face. She was grateful to have him back for even a moment. “Yes, Dad, it’s me.”

  “Hello, Moonbeam,” he said, the smile in his voice.

  “Hello.”

  Then his lids drooped, like shades descending slowly to close out the night.

  She set the pen on the bedside table and pressed a kiss to his ink-smudged forehead. “When I become the Wreath Muse, I’ll bring you all the way home,” she said, wanting it to be true.

  The spray from the fountain left faint water marks on the sage green velvet of Alissa’s gown as she moved across the rose-scented courtyard. The dots of golden light gave everyone’s skin a creamy porcelain glow.

  The soft hum of voices mixed with background music. Mozart’s lilting notes relaxed her. She stopped next to a table covered in Chantilly lace, pretending to admire it, while her attention was really on the large group of laughing friends across the courtyard.

  Cerise Xenakis, her former best friend, held court at the center. Cerise’s dark hair gleamed in the candlelight. She wore a daring dress of white leather and pewter lace. From a distance it looked like lingerie, and Alissa had heard that Cerise had taken the dress from a music video she’d starred in for the Molly Times, one of the bands she inspired. The Molly Times’s debut album had gone platinum and had been nominated for three Grammy Awards.

  Alissa swallowed hard, wondering to whose presentation the EC—the Etherlin Council—had given more votes: hers or Cerise’s. Among the people Cerise inspired, there were an Olympic gold medalist, a Heisman Trophy winner, a principal dancer with the San Francisco Ballet, and four multiplatinum musical artists. Among Alissa’s aspirants, her writers had won a Pulitzer, three National Book Awards, and two Academy Awards. Her scientific and engineering aspirants had published eighty-four scientific papers and generated nineteen patents, two of which Alissa had been included on. She had transferred her share in the patents to the Etherlin community trust. She was proud that her work on clean energy had generated eight million dollars over four years. That was four million more than she’d made modeling. She wanted to be respected and regarded as a muse of substance, but she was glad to have the modeling income for the community as well. She knew that with her combined earnings, she’d contributed more money to the trust than all the other current muses combined.

  Alissa spotted Grant and nodded at him with a smile.

  Grant Easton could sail around the world in rough winds, and the blond good looks he’d inherited from his grandfather made most women want to join him. Alissa actually had.

  When he reached her side, he brushed his lips over her cheek in what was nearly a kiss. The public greeting was just like the man who’d given it to her: smooth, reserved, and appropriate. She wished that could be enough for her.

  “I heard that you and your aspirants gave a great presentation on the desalination project. The council was really impressed.”

  She beamed. “Were they? I’m so glad. I keep going over the voting members in my head, trying to convince myself that I have enough support. I’m glad that the vote’s only a few days away; the past few weeks have been so nerve-wracking.”

  “Well, despite having two daughters in the running for the Wreath, Dimitri continues to be your staunchest supporter.”

  “He considers me his third daughter. I’m very lucky in that respect. What else have you heard regarding where people are leaning?”

  “I think if they voted today, you’d have it, but there are still lingering concerns about the past.”

  “They can’t really be worried about my stability,” she said, frowning. “I’ve been completely solid my whole life.”

  “You refuse security detail while in the Etherlin. People wonder why.”

  “I’m not the only one. All the muses refuse it in the Etherlin. There’s no threat here. ES is the best.”

  He smiled and inclined his head at the compliment to Etherlin Security. ES acted as both police force for the Etherlin and personal security for the muses. Since Grant had been in charge of ES for two years, the praise was directed at him, too.

  “I’m sure things will work out the way they’re meant to for you, Alissa,” he said. “Speaking of the voting EC members, one of them wants you.”

  She followed his gaze to Dimitri Xenakis, who raised a blunt-fingered hand to draw her over. He was a dark-haired bull of a man. Not very tall, but direct and powerful. In the early days after her mother’s death and her father’s breakdown, he was the best advisor and surrogate parent she could’ve wanted. But recently she’d become wary of his interest in her father’s recovery. He’d suggested more than once that her father might unknowingly be leeching some of her muse energy. A guilty tremor made Alissa’s muscles twitch. Her dad wasn’t leeching energy. She was giving it to him, a fact she couldn’t let anyone discover, since it would definitely cost her the Wreath if they did. Unfortunately, without her magic, Alissa was sure her father would spiral downward into a suicide attempt. She couldn’t bear the thought. He was the only family she had left.

  “Are you coming?” she asked Grant as she nodded at Dimitri.

  “No, I’ve got some reports to write tonight. I’m heading out soon.”

  “All right,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze as she passed him.

  Dimitri’s youngest daughter, Dorie, was at his side. When Alissa got close enough to see the sixteen-year-old, she was startled by the change in Dorie’s face. The girl had been born with her mother Calla’s proud Roman nose. Alissa had loved the distinctive look it gave her face, but apparently a plastic surgeon had whittled and sculpted it into something very different. Dorie’s new nose looked familiar, and Alissa realized with a start that she was seeing her own nose on the other girl’s face. Alissa maintained a blank expression, but cri
nged inwardly. There was always so much pressure to be the council’s idea of perfection. It could be overwhelming for someone so young. Alissa, who’d had to battle back from the shame and censure that surrounded her mother’s death, was well used to that pressure. She’d developed her own special way of coping. An illicit way.

  She wrote letters to Merrick—and enjoyed it. There was the feeling, true or not, that she wouldn’t be able to shock him with anything she shared. That he could never condemn her for breaking a rule because he would inevitably have done worse in his life. It gave her an intoxicating sense of freedom, even though it was dangerous. She surreptitiously touched the Art Deco gold and enamel bracelet on her wrist, a gift from Merrick.

  Initially, she’d thought writing to him would be a temporary thing, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Weeks would pass, and he would send her something, some gift. She would try to ignore it, but then in a weak moment, usually during the night, she went to her desk, unearthed her most elegant stationery, and drafted a letter. She often wrote for an entire hour. She never sent the first letters. They contained too much. She always wrote a second, milder, less revealing version that she actually sent. Except once. Once, she’d sent a first draft. She shivered, thinking of it. That letter had almost pushed them into territory where they could never venture. After the Merlot letter, as she referred to it in her mind, she’d stopped writing for almost six months, but then he’d sent flowers and she couldn’t resist acknowledging them. So the writing resumed. The truth was, she loved having a connection, however minor, with someone outside the confines of her own world.

  “Hi, Alissa,” Dorie said. She pushed back a heavy curtain of black hair that had been highlighted with brassy copper streaks.

  “Hello,” Alissa said, offering her a warm smile.

  Dimitri kissed Alissa’s cheeks. “You look beautiful. You should wear that color to the meeting with the Ralph Lauren people.”

  Alissa’s fingers tightened on the champagne flute in her hand. She hoped to be too busy for paid advertising campaigns soon. She hoped to be completely consumed with the Wreath Muse publicity tour and the obligations of the role.