by J. K. Beck
The moon hung heavy and bright in the sky, silently watching as Luke moved through the thick clusters of trees. He moved with purpose, despite the lack of a path, his steps never hesitating, his way certain.
And when he reached the clearing, he stood in the shadow of a tree and waited. Serge had said to meet him there, and now Luke could only wait and hope that Serge's efforts to help him remove the detention device had paid off. Around them, the forest was quiet, though not silent. The baleful hoot of an owl cut through the night, as if echoing Luke's concerns. Minutes passed, and Serge didn't show.
Restless, Luke paced, irritation building, then shifting into cold, hard dread as minutes shifted into hours.
Serge wasn't coming. Of that, Luke was certain.
He was, however, equally sure that his friend would never betray him. Would never make a promise he did not intend to keep.
And that could mean only one thing: The daemon within Sergius had won the battle, and his friend had disappeared into the dark.
He was on the verge of turning around when he heard footsteps in the brush. He peered into the trees, and watched as Nicholas stepped toward him.
"You fired me," his friend said without preamble.
"I had no choice." Luke turned, pointedly looking around the clearing. "You came all this way to complain about our advocate-client relationship?"
"I came to deliver a message," Nick said, his voice clipped with emotion.
"What?" Luke said, worried now. "Serge?"
"The fool approached Tiberius."
Fuck. "In the state he was in? With the daemon so close to the surface? Why the hell would he do that?"
But even as he asked the question, Luke knew the answer. Serge had wanted to make amends for failing in his promise to protect Tasha. Unable to find any other way to 166
free Luke from the detention device, he'd foolishly approached Tiberius, hoping the vampire leader would use his influence and pull the necessary strings. "The goddamn fool."
"Damned is right," Nick said. "Tiberius tried to put him down." A small smile touched Nick's lips. "It didn't go well."
"He's gone rogue."
Nick nodded. "His daemon's out, Luke."
"I understand," Luke said. But at least his friend was free. Had Tiberius captured him, Sergius would be no more.
"Tiberius has assigned me to search for him."
Luke's brow lifted. "What will you do?"
Nick lifted a shoulder. "I'll search. Doesn't necessarily mean I'll find." Luke nodded. For the time being at least, Serge was safe from Tiberius. From himself, though ... that was a different matter.
"I'm also here with a message. Tiberius sends his regrets about Alinda's betrayal." Luke almost smiled. "I'm sure he does."
"He said to tell you that he's arranged to make the problem go away. It won't come back to bite you in the ass, Luke. All things considered, that's better than nothing." 167
Chapter 31
Luke's sprawling Malibu house had been built into the side of a hill and took up at least half a city block. Formidable, and yet alluring. Much like the owner himself. She almost hadn't come. Had, in fact, been driving aimlessly in the night for more than an hour, trying to wrap her head around what she'd learned at the Slaughtered Goat. The truth was that she didn't know what she was going to say. All she knew was that she had to see him. Had to see the Luke who was in her head, and erase the image of the Luke who had sliced that creature's throat. The Luke who had broken Ural Hasik's neck.
The Luke who had lived up to every horrible thing described in his file. Crimes for which he would never be prosecuted, and for which the dead would never have satisfaction.
A set of wooden steps surrounded by lush greenery led down to a solid steel door beside which she found an intercom panel. She pushed it, then heard a faint click. She tried the knob, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.
"Luke?" she called, tentatively at first, and then with more power. "Luke, are you here?"
There was no answer, so she moved all the way inside, shutting the door behind her.
The house was less ornate than she would have expected for such a ritzy address. Instead, she found it homey, lived in, as if Luke had long ago abandoned pretense for comfort and had been concerned with pleasing only himself. It pleased her, too. The bright colors. The overstuffed pillows. Luke undoubtedly never saw the room in the light of day, but it was bright and cheery nonetheless, with a long glass wall at the back that opened onto a wooden deck and a stunning view of the Pacific. She imagined standing there with him and watching the sunset, then felt a pang of regret that they would never in fact see the sun together. A foolish notion, especially considering her purpose in coming here tonight.
Except, of course, that she wasn't certain what her purpose was, other than to see him. Was she expecting him to deny his actions? Or to promise he would never do it again? She wasn't naive enough to believe the first, but she couldn't quell the fear that he would absolutely refuse the second. Fear, because unless he did step away from the blood and death that papered his file, she knew that they would never find a common ground. And a common ground was something she so desperately wanted with him.
"You are a fool," she whispered. At the end of the day, what did it matter if they solved one set of problems? There was another looming--the trial. After a few minutes of standing alone in his living room she called his name one more time, then debated leaving. She couldn't bring herself to do that, though, and instead moved through the house, determined to see him.
She found him upstairs, in the first room off the hallway. A room filled with pink and white, the walls lined with dolls that stared down at them, their faces full of bland 168
disapproval.
Beneath the porcelain-faced audience, Luke stood at the window, looking out at the white-tipped waves. He knew she was there, of course. Even were her image not reflected in the glass, he would have known simply from the scent of her.
"I came in here to think of her," he said. "To remember the way she would sit on the bed and play with her dolls. To picture her running on the beach in the moonlight, her face lit with a smile. Innocence," he said. "And that bitch and her human cohort have sullied her."
"I'm so sorry. But I still believe you'll get her back." She watched as his shoulders sagged. "I know."
The silence loomed between them, and still he didn't turn around. He had to know why she'd come, but he didn't say a word about it. This was her issue, her battle. And she was going to have to strike the first blow.
"I've just come from the Slaughtered Goat," she said.
"Are you here to arrest me, Counselor?"
"No. There won't be any arrests in that matter. Prosecutorial discretion. No charges being pressed."
She thought she saw the slightest relieved sag in his shoulders before he lifted his head so that she could see his face in the glass. He was looking straight at her with unmistakable heat, and she felt desire stir inside her, her body responding to nothing more than the intensity of his gaze. She drew in a breath and stood still, determined not to show it--at the same time certain that those damn vampiric senses could hear the increased tempo of her heart and find the scent of her desire.
"Then why are you here, Sara?" he asked, his tone both an invitation and a challenge.
"Because of you. Because of me. Because there can't be a you and me if you do that."
"Do what?" he asked. "You're a prosecutor, Sara. Aren't you trained to be precise?
The word you're looking for is kill. "
"Yes, dammit, it is. And you can't just go out and decide who lives and who dies." He turned away from the window to face her. "Do you condemn the man who killed Jacob Crouch?"
She blinked with sudden understanding. "You? You killed Jacob Crouch?"
"This is who I am, Sara. It's what I do. And you will either accept me or you won't. But I will know that you understand it. All of it."
"No." She shook her head. "No. I don't want to
know this. I don't know what you expect me to do with what you're telling me."
"I only want you to admit to what you already know. That justice is not necessarily found in the courtroom."
"Just because I wanted it--just because I praised you without even knowing you-that doesn't make it right."
"How is it wrong, Sara? He was a murderer, a beast. How was it right to let him continue to inflict pain on others?"
"What do you want me to say? Do you want me to say that it was right that you killed Crouch? Fine, I'll say it. But that doesn't mean you can leap from that one event to a general rule. It comes down to something so basic it's a cliche--the ends don't justify the 169
means, dammit."
"Sometimes," Luke said, "they do." He took a step toward her. "Meet me there, Sara. Come at least that far with me."
"I don't know if I can." She couldn't hide the pain in her voice.
"The world isn't black-and-white. Especially not this world. Did your father's stories of history teach you nothing? The world is painted in shades of gray, an infinite number all blending together to make a pattern."
"I don't see it that way."
"Then you don't see me," he said. "I do what I do to calm my daemon."
"Surely there's another way," she said.
"Perhaps. But I'm not going to seek it out. There are some rules in this world of ours, and one is to move through it with the daemon harnessed. There are those who don't subscribe to that rule. Who kill humans with glee and torment their own kind. Those who haven't tried to subdue the evil within. I hunt them down, Sara. I hunt them, and I kill them. Which is no more than they would do to me."
"I get that, Luke. I do. But it still doesn't make it right."
"And that's the fundamental difference between us. You see right and wrong while I see an evil that must be stopped." He took a step toward her, his body tense, his expression dark. "I was once the very thing I now hunt. And make no mistake, the daemon lives in me still, and one day I may not always be strong enough to contain it."
"You are," she said, her voice weak, her mouth dry. "You will be." He caught her wrist and pulled her close, then bent down to whisper in her ear.
"Are you certain?"
There was danger in his voice, along with a warning. She didn't heed it. Instead, she embraced it, her pulse quickening, her skin suddenly so very sensitive. "I am," she whispered.
His hand went around her back, and he pushed her toward him until their bodies ground together. "You play with fire, Sara, and yet when I'm around you, the daemon purrs. You soothe me. But right now I don't want to be soothed." His mouth crushed hers like an invader, vanquishing whatever remnants of hesitation remained within her. His tongue plundered her mouth, and she met him stroke for stroke savoring the taste of him. Scotch and heat and pungent desire. His hands gripped her rear, drawing her closer, fitting her tight against the erection that strained beneath his jeans. She whimpered, her hands clutching the material of his shirt, holding tight against the rising sensations that filled her, claiming her and begging for more.
She broke the kiss, tilting her head back to look into eyes that reflected the depths of her own desire. "Luke." It was a plea, a prayer, and an invitation, and he accepted, scooping her into his arms and carrying her into the hall as if she weighed no more than a feather.
"My room," he growled. "My bed."
A huge bed dominated the room, lit from above by moonlight from the glass ceiling. She still had enough of her sanity left to look for the shutters, and found the metal blinds tucked in at the sides, ready to close as dawn threatened the sky.
"I've missed the feel of you," he said, laying her gently on the bed, his large hands struggling with the tiny buttons of her blouse. "Screw it," he said, then grabbed the 170
material and tugged, sending buttons flying and making her laugh as the cool air brushed over her naked skin.
His finger caressed the lace of her bra, tracing the swell of her breast against it.
"So beautiful."
"Touch me," she begged, longing to feel his hands on her breasts and the weight of him pressing down upon her. "Touch me now."
He wasted no time fulfilling her command. His hands grazed down her belly, finding the button on her linen slacks. He tugged them off, taking her underwear at the same time, until she found herself naked from the waist down, clad only in her bra and her open blouse.
"Beautiful," he whispered, his hands caressing her thighs, stroking the soft skin and sending ribbons of white-hot heat curling throughout her body. "Clothes," she said.
"Off."
He took care of that quickly, stripping naked as she watched, his body as magnificent as she imagined any god's could ever be. "Better?" he asked, sliding once more to brush his fingers up her legs.
She couldn't answer. Could only moan, the ache growing between her legs forcing her silence. She craved his touch, the velvet stroke of his fingertips, his breath against her clit, his cock filling her. She wanted everything--all of him--and she was absolutely certain that she would die of frustration if she didn't have it all right then, right there.
"Here," she said, taking his hand from her thigh and pressing his palm against her sex. "Now, please, now."
A low growl rose from his throat as his finger slid inside her. "You're wet for me, Sara. Tell me how wet you are for me. How much you want me."
"I am," she said, spreading her legs for him, giving herself to him. "I do." He moved up her body, exploring her with his mouth as he went. With deft fingers he unfastened the front clasp of her bra and released her breasts. His mouth closed over her nipple, laving it with such intensity she thought she might come right then. He pulled away, leaving her mourning the distance, then twined his fingers in her hair. "Kiss me," he murmured even as he descended hungrily upon her. She matched him, their mouths meeting, warring, claiming.
Between her legs, his erection twitched, hard and ready. She reached down, lifting her hips, her hand finding him. He was velvet steel beneath her fingers, and she guided him to her core, straining up, silently urging him to take her. To fill her. He didn't disappoint. With a low groan of pleasure, he pushed slowly inside, giving her body time to adjust, to take him. But when she was ready, when she'd clasped her legs tight around him, all pretense of easiness evaporated as he thrust inside, their hips pistoning in perfect time as the deep, carnal pleasure crescendoed. He took her right to the edge, then slowed--the torment enough to have her crying out--biting her shoulder through the shirt she still wore. He wasn't finished with her, though, and as he entered her in long, measured thrusts, his hand slipped between them, the pad of his thumb stroking her until it was pleasure--and not frustration--that had her pressing her lips tight together to try to keep from screaming as she came, the world bursting into a million particles of light.
Her fingers clawed at his back as he thrust harder and faster, finding his own release even as the last starbursts of her orgasm fizzled and popped around her. "Oh, 171
wow," she said, as he collapsed beside her, pulling her tight against him, their bodies as connected now as they'd been during sex.
"I think that sums it up nicely," he murmured, the grin on his face reflected in his voice. He shifted, propping himself up on his elbow, his massive body shadowing hers. He traced his finger lazily over her stomach and up near her breast, the effect anything but relaxing.
"Your body is like a treasure," he whispered. "More beautiful than the statues carved by the masters themselves."
"You're very sweet. Insane," she added with a laugh, "but sweet."
"Insane, am I? How can you doubt a man who watched the masters themselves?
Who knew the models personally?" There was a tease in his voice, and she fought not to laugh. "I assure you that I know what I'm talking about."
"That must have been amazing."
"At the time," he said, "it was only my life. Looking back now--seeing the way the world has changed--yes, it is amazing." He sat up, p
ulling her into his lap and tucking her close to his chest. "I would love to show you my past. To walk you through Rome, through Britain. To tell you the stories of what I saw on the streets and the people I once knew."
A deep longing filled her. "I'd like that. I'd like to hear your stories." She eased close, head tucked against his chest, suddenly melancholy.
"Sara? What is it?"
"Foolishness," she said. "It's just that for you, I'm not much more than a blip on the calendar."
"Never," he said, with conviction so warm and strong that she was sure nothing would ever shake it. "I will walk through history with you, and we will make these years our own."
She laughed, forcing herself not to think of the looming trial, the very real possibility of his demise. "Even if we did, it would be a short history. I'm longevity challenged, after all."
He stroked her hair. "To me, a single moment with you is more precious than a century with someone else."
The sentiment delighted and flattered her, and she snuggled closer, then lifted her face for a kiss. "I don't want this to end," she said.
"Then let's make sure it doesn't," he said, and caught her mouth in a kiss. He made love to her again, slow and sweet, then held her until she drifted to sleep in his embrace. She awakened to the bold strains of Beethoven's Ode to Joy-- and thought that the ringtone for her alarm was absolutely perfect.
She didn't want to leave his arms. There were no nightmares here, no gaping voids between them. All her doubts were swept away.
But she couldn't stay. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed, then smiled when Luke's hand reached out to stroke her back. "I have to go," she said. "I have a meeting this morning."
"You'll come back?"
She wanted desperately to say yes. Instead, she twisted around to look at him.
"Will you kill again?"
"Sara--"
172
She held up a hand. "You wanted us to be clear, Luke. For me to understand it all." She watched him stiffen. "I know the way the world works, Luke. I know you have powerful Alliance connections, and I can put the pieces together. So tell me now. If you're asked to step in--if you're asked to kill--will you go? Will you answer that call?" She saw the change in him instantly, the hardening of his features, the slight downturn at his mouth. "Of course," he said. And she knew then that in the cold light of day, nothing between them had changed.