So where was their host?
Fallon extended her senses for the magical signatures. There by the far wall, a pulse of necromantic magic. And another in the middle of the dance floor. Neither were strong, acolytes monitoring the outer club or other low-level duties.
She extended further, discarding the signatures of the weaklings. They would pose no threat if she needed to kill them to escape. Stronger here and there, but not yet, not quite…
Tendrils vibrating with a heavy thrum of magic wrapped around her senses, caressing down the length until it reached her body. Without her shields it would have engulfed her and demanded she kneel in its wake, shudder with despair, degradation…desire.
Reign.
A big tankard was placed in front of Laire, leaving the mage clasping her hands in childish display and with a gleeful, “Sweet! I was afraid all they would have was absinthe or shit like that.”
Wulver was on the stool next to Laire, leaning back so his thick forearms rested behind him on the bar, the movement stretching his blue T-shirt tight across his chest. “I know we’re on time. How long do you think before they notice us?”
Fallon catalogued all eyes on them from both living and dead. “Oh, they’ve noticed us. But Reign wouldn’t be Reign if he didn’t exert his authority.”
Wulver nodded. He tried to appear nonchalant, unconcerned, but he failed so spectacularly the passersby were giving him looks of pity. Not unexpected, since there were few things bossman hated more than being surrounded by suckheads.
Then he tensed, his gaze fixed on the far end of the bar. “What’s this?”
Laire turned to look. She straightened in her seat, her hand going to fix her hair. “Oh, he’s cute!”
“Sure is. Too bad he’s up for sale to the highest bidder,” Fallon said, taking in the V-shaped torso and long legs of the man at the end of the bar.
“For sale?” parroted Laire, and damned if she didn’t reach for her purse.
“Give me that.” Fallon grabbed the purse and threw it to Wulver, who threw it behind him. “Please tell me you recognize the most in-demand mercenary in the business.”
“Why, did we have a drunken one-night stand you forgot to tell me about?”
The jeans and T-shirt combo marked the man as much an outsider as they were. Anyone without training would buy the good-ole-boy obliviousness he projected – if good-ole-boys had thick black tribal tattoos running over large chunks of exposed skin and long black hair with dyed-red streaks in it – but the defined lines of his body were a little too tense, his stance too close to battle-ready for those used to war to mistake this man as a non-threat.
Motioning toward the end of the bar, Fallon said, “Since we’re waiting for Reign anyway, I’m heading over and saying hi, maybe ask him about a certain rumor we’ve heard.”
Wulver nodded, while Laire asked, “Can I come too and get his number?”
“I’m going to say no.”
When she was only a step away he called out, “Fancy meeting you here, Dragon Slayer. Hanging with vampires…seems I should have given the stories I heard a little more consideration.”
Leaning against the bar so her sword hand was free, Fallon said, “I was wondering why I’m seeing you here as well, Merc. I never took you for a guy who was interested in the lace and tights crowd. Searching for a new personal style?”
“No, not me. Only male elves can pull that off.”
“So why are you here?”
His shrug was perfect nonchalance, the movement hiking the shirt from his waistband and giving a quick glance of muscled torso. “Blood banks are legal under the treaty between the Seven Houses. No reason why I shouldn’t be here.”
“No, no reason. Meeting anyone special?”
He smiled at her, a deep dimple appearing with the movement. “Why? You looking for a date? While I’m flattered, I tend to like the ladies a little darker-haired and darker-skinned. However, I might know the perfect guy for you.”
“You are sweet to be so concerned over my love life, but I’ve decided only to date guys who have bigger swords than me.”
“I can see how that limits your dating pool.”
Reign would send for them any minute, and Merc wouldn’t meet with his client, not now that he’d seen them. So when he reached again for his drink, Fallon placed her hand over the glass.
His fingers folded into a strike form, but there were no further signs of aggression as he took her in and awaited her next move. Fallon said, “I’m not interested in a fight. I want to give a friendly warning. You’ve always been under our watch, but you’ve never done anything stupid enough to warrant being placed on our shit list. I advise you not to change that habit now.”
His smile held the same level of friendliness as a shark’s. “Whatever could you mean?”
“I’ve heard things about a spellbook and an auction run by a certain facilitator. Ring any bells?”
“Not a one. But if I hear anything, I’m coming straight to you.”
He was good – impossible to read and giving nothing away. Such a waste he hadn’t joined them when he was invited. “Appreciate that. Think about what I said. I’d hate for us to end up on opposite sides.”
Merc grabbed his shot glass from the table. After saluting her, he brought it to his lips and drank the contents down, the strong column of his throat advertising the liquid’s path. “I find I’m a little tired. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, he left.
Wulver’s eyes were on her as Fallon made her way back. He gave a small shake of his head, indicating he didn’t want to talk about it yet. Yeah, probably best not to discuss their business around here.
Moments after Merc walked out of the club, a vampire walked through the crowd and toward their little group. While his necromantic energy was unmistakable, his eyes were not red. So not a true vampire, merely one of the serving boys.
One who had overestimated his power, the poor deluded bastard, because instead of stopping some distance away he came to stand right before the three of them. Holding out his hand, he said, “I need your sword.”
Laire snorted into her drink while Wulver’s chuckles sounded on Fallon’s other side. Smartasses. Fallon really didn’t want to deal with baby vamp right now. Going to see Reign was never an activity that put her in a happy mood, and if Reign was tempting her into a fight by sending some fool into her path, it was a ploy that had a good chance of working. “Everyone needs my sword sweet-cheeks, but I’m the only one who’s going to be holding it. Now run along, because I’m not supposed to fight anyone tonight.”
The vampire’s eyes narrowed. His lip curled, flashing a hint of fang. “You will give me your sword, or I will beat your insolence out of you.”
Laire laughed so hard she proceeded to fall off the chair. Through the slightly-screechy, slightly-snorty display, she managed to eke out, “He’s killing me here. Tell him to stop.”
The vampire was young and wanted to start a fight. Fallon was feeling charitable enough to give it to him, but if she started one, Kyo would scold Laire, and Laire would mope for a week, and all in all, it wasn’t worth it. Besides, she could turn this around and work it to her advantage, maybe get out of this damned meeting. “Tenro goes where I go. I’m either admitted to Reign with my sword, or I leave.”
Wulver’s low, “Don’t even think it, Fallon,” squashed that plan. Damn.
“Master Reign, human. Do not take such liberties with his name.”
Laire had calmed down from her laughing fit enough she could stand by her chair again. At the vamp’s words she piped up. “Trust us, junior. Reign wants nothing more than for her to take liberties with him.”
Before Fallon could smack Laire, a bald, dark-skinned man appeared behind the young vampire. Sleek and elegant, he was all smooth lines, from his expensive suit complete with tie and cufflinks to the well-trimmed mustache and goatee. He bowed. “Lady Fallon, please forgive your treatment. I am here to escort you to Master Reign.”
The young vampire
voiced his displeasure. “But the human has a sword.”
The man’s gaze beat into the young vampire, and the vamp shrank from it. The man spoke. “Listen well. Whenever Lady Fallon appears, you are to immediately bring her to our Master. Do you understand?”
The vampire bowed and scurried away, escaping the anger emanating from the suited man. The man’s almost-black eyes focused on Fallon, deliberate in his exclusion of Laire and Wulver. “My apologies, Lady Fallon. If you and your guests will come this way.”
Wulver looked at her with a told you expression. Letting loose her sigh only in her own mind, Fallon took the lead and followed the man.
Laire spoke low at her side. “Who is that?”
“Zemar. He’s Reign’s personal bodyguard.”
“But he’s human?”
“I have no idea what he is.”
Zemar led them to the back of the club, where a well-hidden door awaited them and opened to a hellish wonderland. The outer club Outside was decadent, but in here, in this room, it was the first level of Dante’s Hell. Everywhere was flesh and pain and degradation and underneath it all, the copper tang of blood, oppressive and inescapable.
Wulver’s energy flared and Fallon turned back to see his eyes brighten and turn translucent in the dim light. She put her hand on his arm, his skin shuddering under her palm.
It was unfair that Kyo sent Wulver instead of coming himself. None of them liked being here, but a place like this was special torture for Wulver. But he was here, and none of them could be weak in front of an enemy. Fallon’s fingertips bit harder into Wulver’s forearm in wordless demand, and he blinked, his eyes back to their normal yellow the next time they met hers.
They followed Zemar, passing scenes of damaged carnality on all sides. One woman was flat on a table, her legs spread wide as a man pounded into her with inhuman strength. Two vampires hovered over her chest, biting her breasts as she screamed out her pleasure. Another corner held a woman being whipped. With each stroke, vampires would come to lick the trickling blood off her back.
The back of the room had a wide set of stairs that led to the second floor, an open space that overlooked the cavernous club area. Here the gothic scheme morphed into chrome-and-glass and clean minimal lines.
A large, luxurious white couch spanned one end of the back wall to the other. A dozen beings sat on the couch – all but one a woman, all of them otherworldly beautiful, all laughing as though they weren’t part of a nightmare. Blood and alcohol lined the table in front of them, as well as other stimulants that guaranteed they wouldn’t have to live with their conscience for yet another night.
In the middle was the lone male. Physically, he appeared to be a human man in his mid-twenties. Impeccable grooming and stylish dark good looks, and an old-world manner evident even though he was doing nothing save sitting on the couch. Ungodly beautiful, with a square jaw and thick brows over deep-set blood-red eyes, nicely formed mouth and a straight Roman nose.
He had a woman on each side, both of them stroking and nuzzling him. He paid them no mind.
His eyes sought and stayed fast on Fallon, roaming the contours of her face, her body, the marking so intense it was almost physical. “Fallon.”
Fallon swallowed, caught in that gaze. Inside her was a shifting, a growl, a warning to leave that she ignored. She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Reign.”
Reign murmured, “It’s been a long time.”
Wulver stepped in front of her, protecting her and partially blocking her from Reign’s gaze. “Vampire Reign, thank you for seeing us.”
“Wulver.” Not bothering with any courtesy, Reign turned his attention toward the male of the group. Reign’s voice was deep, cultured, giving even ugly words an elegance they did not otherwise deserve. “Make no mistake, I granted this meeting as it was a personal request from Fallon.”
“We appreciate it no matter the circumstances. We can only hold the peace as long as all stay within the boundaries that were agreed on after the Great Collision. This protects both your interests and ours.”
“Not that you have any boundaries, huh?” Laire piped in, gesturing to the many scenes behind her.
Reign’s attention turned to Laire for the first time of the evening. “Everything done here is consensual, as was agreed upon in those long-ago talks and sealed by each leader of the Seven Houses, including Kyo. Blood is life, and we agreed not to seek it out from unwilling sources as long as willing sources were not stopped from seeking us.”
Laire looked like she wanted to say something else, but Wulver raised his hand in signal to stop. Wulver’s voice rang out, no diplomacy left in his tone. “There was a zombie attack in the protected zone two nights ago. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
Wulver waited a beat, but when Reign said nothing else, Wulver continued. “This attack was done by a master. The zombies were not created by someone new to the craft.”
Reign shrugged, the movement more eloquent then it deserved to be. “No master under my control had anything to do with the attack. My people know the rules. I’m sure you have studied them for magical brands – use those.”
“The zombies disintegrated once they were no longer functional. As I said, they were not created by a novice.”
Reign made a dismissive gesture. “My magical kin are not exactly unionized. I control those under me. I do not ask what others do.”
Wulver’s back was a mass of knotted muscle, but his voice was even as he continued. “There was also an orc attack in the city. Would you know anything about that? Orcs would never be able to get in the city on their own, and they would have no reason to do this without someone bargaining with them.”
“I’m afraid I do not. Is there anything else before you go?”
Laire made a great display of looking over her nails, saying in an offhand manner, “No surprise you suckheads are so weak you can’t keep tabs on one another.”
“Would you like to see how weak I am, Battle Mage? Do you truly believe I fear your little fireballs?”
Reign began to rise and Wulver began to growl. This was going FUBAR fast.
Fallon sidestepped Wulver, only the inches of the table separating her from Reign. She kept her hands down, away from her sword. “The only one here you should fear is me. I told you long ago, I’m the one to separate your soul from your body.”
Reign’s full attention was on her, those blood eyes as light as she’d ever seen. He reached toward her, the smooth skin of his fingertips grazing over her forehead while his thumb made sure, short strokes over her cheekbone, the strokes coming ever nearer her mouth.
She didn’t object. Her gaze stayed locked with his and her hands stayed at her side. With a slow, deliberate movement, he pushed his hand into the fall of her hair, wrapping a thick strand around his fingers and wrist. His voice dropped, deepening as he spoke words meant for her. “I love your hair. The color of blood at its most fragrant and powerful.”
The light tug on the strands didn’t hurt. Instead it sensitized her. The swirl of color in his eyes was myriad shades of red reflected and magnified. “You should let go now,” she said, low even tones that matched his own.
The corner of that edible mouth lifted, baring a fang. “Never.” He pulled her closer, keeping to that edge of discomfort that never crossed into pain. “Stay by my side.”
She ghosted her mouth across the air over his, one inch all the space that separated them, that he could feel the warm, moist puff of her breath a certainty. Her voice held a low, breathy undertone she had never heard come from her lips. “Never.”
He gazed down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, the pull on her hair now a welcome pain that did nothing to break her away from him.
Wulver’s voice came from behind her, tones that spoke of barely leashed violence. “Is there anything you wish to tell us about the zombie attack? If not, my people and I will take our leave.”
Reign’s lips thinned, the muscle in the corner
of his jaw betraying itself with a small tic. His hand clenched in her hair, his greedy gaze roamed her face once more, lingering over each square inch of her skin.
Then he pulled back into himself, cloaking himself with decorum. He unwound her hair from his hand, sitting down on the couch. In moments the two women were back at his side. “I know nothing about the zombies. Good luck in finding their maker.”
Fallon turned to step down from the platform, Reign’s voice following her. “You are welcome anytime, Fallon, but please do not invite your friends again.” Without stopping she walked toward the exit, the shift in air currents preceding Wulver and Laire as they followed her.
Once they were in the car, Laire spoke. “That was productive.”
“To be expected,” Fallon said. “We knew talking with him was a longshot at best.”
Laire pursed her lips, studying Fallon with an intensity rare outside of a shoe sale. “Vampire boy is a little too touchy-feely with you, and you aren’t afraid of getting in his space. You sure you two never dated?”
Leave it to Laire to start awkward conversations at completely the wrong time. “Are you serious?”
Laire shrugged. “He may be the scourge of all the realms, but there is no denying undead boy is damn, damn fine.”
“So you think ultimate evil necromancer is my type?”
“I’d be really thrilled to find out you had a type. It’s not like I see you dating right now. Or ever.”
“Why is everyone suddenly worried about my dating habits?”
Thank the gods Wulver had the sense to interrupt this line of questioning. He directed a question to Fallon. “What information on the teacher?”
“Tec hasn’t found any info that would suggest why she’s targeted. The only interesting pieces of trivia we found are she was born the day of the Great Collision, and big brother isn’t as finished with the military as his family thinks he is.”
“What about fangwhipped?” Laire asked, bringing her hand in front of her mouth and using the first two fingers to mimic fangs.
“Who are you, vampire bunny? And no. There is no sign of it.”
Stone Guardian (Entwined Realms) Page 12