Seducing the Dark Prince

by Jane Kindred

  “Have you been able to isolate the autosomal mutations responsible for the...condition?”

  “We have, indeed. We’re well past that stage.” Lucien looked thoughtful before moving toward an isolated room at the rear of the lab. “Let me show you something.” He used his key card once more on the door. “Another access code I’ll provide you with. This one’s highly classified, since it has to do with our special research.”

  He held the door for Theia and she stepped in, not realizing at first the significance of what she was looking at. Cages lined the walls of the small room, containing what seemed to be perfectly ordinary specimens—mice, rats, a snake.

  Lucien closed the door behind him. “These are all animals in which we’ve been able to induce lycanthropy through gene manipulation.”

  “Lycanthropy?”

  “As a generic term, it doesn’t refer strictly to wolf-human forms but to any kind of trans-species shift.”

  Theia moved closer to the snake—a juvenile albino ball python—to get a better look. “You mean...they all shift?”

  “It makes it easier to study the triggers and suppression mechanisms when we know exactly what genes we’re dealing with.” Lucien pushed a button next to the glass of the python’s cage.

  “What does that do?”

  “Triggers the shift by introducing a mild toxin into the sealed environment.”

  Theia bristled. “A toxin?”

  “It won’t harm it. It’s more of an irritant. We’ll remove it and rebalance the environment in a moment.”

  Theia was about to give him a piece of her mind about humane lab practices, but the snake had begun to uncoil, raising its head as if sensing them or perhaps just sensing the change in its air. And as it lifted its snout, the yellow and white pattern of the scales began to ripple and grow, becoming feathery, while the snout elongated into a beak. The reptile shuddered as it morphed, although she’d seen much more violent transformations. This, at least, didn’t appear to be painful.

  The body shortened. Limbs grew—a pair of legs with talons. Soon it was covered in feathers, wings bursting from the flesh at its sides and a comb and wattles elongating out of the remaining scales on the head. A rooster...a cock. Theia shivered.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? And just as we’ve triggered the metamorphosis, we can trigger the reverse.” Lucien pressed the button again, and in moments the creature was shuddering back into its original python form and curling up into its previous coil. “The gene manipulation is a shortcut, of course. We can’t exactly experiment with genetic modification on human subjects. Although human trials for the serum are the next phase. We’re not quite there yet, but we’re actively recruiting volunteers who already have the shifter gene.”

  Theia turned to stare at him, thinking he might be pulling her leg, but his expression was serious.

  “You see why we have a need for ethical oversight from someone familiar with the sensitive nature of the work.”

  “You expect me to help you experiment on human volunteers?”

  “Like I said, the actual clinical trial comes later. Probably at least a year away. What you would be doing is helping us map triggers based on genome. And making sure confidentiality is maintained as well as helping to establish a sensitivity protocol for screening volunteers. Which is where your special skills would come in.”

  There was something unsettling about the idea of people volunteering such information to a large, profit-driven corporation, but she supposed someone with lycanthropy who was desperate to control it might be willing to sacrifice some privacy for the promise of a cure. Or at least the promise of a regimen for managing it.

  The idea of mapping triggers, however—mapping them to genes—it almost made her toes tingle with giddy excitement.

  Lucien smiled knowingly. “It’s a lot to take in all at once. I don’t expect you to answer right away. Take your time and think about it.”

  Once he’d started talking pharmacogenomics, there wasn’t really any question of what her answer was going to be, and she suspected he knew that. But it wouldn’t hurt to sleep on it and think it over rationally. Or pretend to.

  Theia held out her hand and gave him what she hoped was a businesslike handshake. Her palm felt small in his. Despite his claim that he didn’t do physical labor, his hands were surprisingly muscular. Not in an unpleasant way, but like he was used to using them for more than just writing checks from his trust. Maybe he worked out a lot and it was from gripping weights or something. As with his earlier greeting, his grasp was warm and familiar. Not businesslike at all.

  Theia tried to keep from blushing at the contact. “I’ll definitely think it over. Thanks for taking the time to show me around.”

  After holding her hand a moment longer, Lucien winked as he let it go. “Anytime, darling.” There was something in the way he said darling combined with the wink that seemed deliberately alienating, as though he’d realized he’d been behaving much too civilly. Like he was reminding her that he was a jackass. Well, it worked, buddy. She didn’t feel flushed or breathless anymore, just annoyed.

  Chapter 6

  For some reason, the meeting with Theia had agitated him. Lucien took the company Maserati and drove south from Flagstaff with the top down, deliberately speeding, taking the switchbacks and hairpin turns down Highway 89A without slowing, just to hear his tires squeal.

  He liked her more than he wanted to. He didn’t really want to like anyone. Wanting something—wanting someone—made you vulnerable, and that was something Lucien didn’t intend to be. He needed to be vigilant. The family curse might be nothing more than a legend, but he wasn’t about to be caught with his metaphysical pants down. The last time a firstborn son of the Smok family had been required to pay the price demanded by the witch in Briançon before she burned, the Smoks had only just immigrated to the New World. Every seven generations, so the legend went. The last Smok to pay it had fought against the British in the American Revolution.

  Lucien wasn’t going to be the next.

  At the same time, he kind of hated himself for turning on his manufactured “Lucien Smok, spoiled brat” persona just as he’d parted ways with Theia. He could see the disappointment in her face. She’d been warming up to him, and he’d yanked the rug out from under her on purpose.

  When he got back to his rented suite, he found an envelope had been slipped under his door. It was a little unsettling not knowing who this “helpful citizen” was, but the source had been right on the money every time. It was better intel than he could get at Polly’s—at least not without her expecting something in return. Then again, everything had a price. He just didn’t know what it was yet. It ought to worry him more, but right now he needed to send something to hell.

  He opened the manila envelope, expecting another name, maybe an active vamp who preyed on the living—unlike the pasty poseurs at Polly’s—or an animated corpse. Instead, it was a URL. Lucien was surprised to find it took him to a genealogy website. The page was for the Carlisle family. What was the point of this? He already knew their history. They were descendants of the witch, and they’d inherited her gifts. Witches might have the potential to create supernatural havoc, but they weren’t supernatural themselves. It wasn’t like they were demons.

  Lucien closed the browser just as a message appeared on his phone from Polly.

  Got something juicy for you, hon. Come by tonight.

  * * *

  He headed to Polly’s after dark, trying for low-key in a tan Versace suit.

  Polly laughed when she saw him. “What is this, the Obama surprise?”

  “Hey, that was a damn fine suit. So’s this. Just because some people have no appreciation for style...”

  “Whatever you say.” She was at her usual booth, surrounded by pretty-boy vegan bloodsuckers and assorted half-shifted weres, and she gave no indication that she int
ended to dismiss them.

  “So what is it you wanted to tell me that you couldn’t just text me?”

  Polly pretended to pout. “Now you’re just being mean. Is it so terrible to have to see me in person?”

  Lucien sighed. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. It’s just that you look awfully busy, and I wasn’t really planning on hanging out and drinking tonight. I felt like shit the next morning after the last time we chatted.”

  “It’s not my fault you can’t handle your liquor. Anyway, I thought you might want to be here tonight, because there’s someone special visiting.”

  “Who?”

  She nodded toward a table near the stage, partially lit by the spillover of the spotlight on the singer. “Check out the Amazon with the short bald guy.”

  Lucien noted the tall, leggy blonde and her considerably less impressive companion. “So? Who are they?”

  “Who cares who he is? Probably a snack. She’s Brünnhilde.”

  Lucien’s brows drew together. “Who the hell is Brünnhilde?”

  Polly gave him a smug grin. “She’s a Valkyrie, baby. I found you a Valkyrie.”

  The bloodsucker beside her frowned. “Who’s this asshole? Why does he get a Valkyrie?”

  Polly slapped his hand. “I’m not giving her to him, you idiot. She’s a freaking Valkyrie. And have some respect. This is Lucien. He’s the—”

  “Thanks, Polly. You can quit there. A little discretion?” He turned toward the table where the Valkyrie sat, but Polly put her foot in his path.

  “Hey. No thank-you? Not even a little kiss?” She tilted her head and pointed to her cheek.

  Lucien smiled, remembering his manners. He’d be wise to keep Polly on his good side. And she had done him a favor. He leaned in, but instead of kissing her cheek, he lifted her hand from around the vamp’s shoulder and kissed the back of it, to the annoyance of both parties.

  Polly flipped her hair, black this evening, over her shoulder. “Come by tomorrow at two. You can thank me properly.”

  Lucien approached the Valkyrie’s table, realizing halfway there that he didn’t know what to offer for information from a Valkyrie. What did Valkyries want? Souls? They didn’t need him for that. And he wasn’t likely to be able to give them any valiant, heroic ones. He lucked out, though, as she seemed thoroughly bored with her companion.

  He smiled winningly at her as she glanced up. “Pardon the intrusion, but would you care to dance?” No one else was dancing, but Brünnhilde rose and accepted as if eager to escape.

  The song that had been playing was more on the swing spectrum, but the band switched to something slow and melodic. Lucien put his arm around her waist and took her hand, feeling like an adolescent next to her. It was like dancing with a tree.

  “I’m Lucien,” he offered.

  “Brünnhilde.”

  “That’s a lovely name.”

  Brünnhilde’s brow arched. “Is it? In 2017 in the Southwestern United States?”

  Lucien laughed. “Well, Lucien isn’t exactly in fashion, either. Your name stands out. And it suits you.”

  “I get the impression you want something from me, Lucien.”

  “Can’t a guy ask a beautiful woman to dance?”

  She gave him another brow arch, this time without amusement, and he laughed.

  “All right. I’ll cut to the chase, since you’ve been gracious enough to indulge me. I understand you’re a Valkyrie. I hope that’s not out of line to say.”

  Brünnhilde shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was half-heartedly confirming her identity or agreeing that he was out of line, but he forged ahead. “I wondered if you might have heard anything about the Wild Hunt.”

  “You speak of Odin’s Hunt.”

  “I believe so, yes. But one that’s out of season.”

  Brünnhilde’s green eyes flickered with annoyance. “Indeed it is. The Chieftain of the Hunt defies propriety. No surprise, given his protector.”

  “His protector?”

  “A mortal who wields peculiar magic. She somehow bested one of my sisters to win him.”

  “That’s surprising. Why does he need protection? And from a mortal, no less?”

  “Because his body is meant to sleep while he rides. But when Kára removed her own protection from him, she also gave him the power to ride while in his skin. It’s a disgrace. Of course, Kára was a disgrace long before this latest stunt.”

  “Kára? She’s your sister?”

  Brünnhilde nodded tersely. “She calls herself Faye these days. She was once a great warrior, but she defied the Norns to coddle this man, fallen in battle. Instead of taking him to his reward in Valhalla, she kept him as a pet. In exchange, he was cursed to lead Odin’s Hunt.”

  “This man, the chieftain—you say he was fallen. You mean he died?”

  “Precisely. Died in battle, but Kára broke the laws of the Valkyries, the laws of Odin himself.”

  “So he shouldn’t be here. His life is unnatural.”

  Brünnhilde shrugged. “Well. None of the wraiths of the Hunt should be here. And yet they are. They are all unnatural. That’s what makes them wraiths, does it not? How else would we have the Hunt?”

  The music ended, and Lucien thanked her for the dance.

  Brünnhilde glanced back at the table where her inexplicably dull companion was waiting for her. “I suppose I’ll have to take him now. Warriors aren’t what they used to be. She sighed and headed back to her table.

  Lucien had the answer he needed. Leo Ström was as unnatural as a man could get. His soul might once have been destined for Valhalla, but now it belonged in hell.

  * * *

  He donned his hunting attire and made sure the arrows in his quiver were all equipped with his specially designed arrowheads. Having Smok labs at his disposal had come in handy in his quest to rid the world of revenants and demons. The exploding tips were filled with a serum known at the lab as the Soul Reaper. Developed for those dangerous and recalcitrant creatures they occasionally came across on their consults, it was deadly to the inhuman. And if the inhuman creature it struck happened to have a human soul remaining in it, the remnant was dissolved and relegated, presumably, to hell.

  In all honesty, Lucien wasn’t sure he believed in an afterlife of reward or punishment, but he’d seen plenty of evidence of an underworld—or perhaps underworlds—a plane where the supernatural elements of living things, whether spirit or soul or something else, could travel. Virtually every religious tradition had its own version of this soul realm—and a ruler of it.

  He took a more discreet car this time and drove to the home where Rhea Carlisle and Leo Ström were staying. No point waiting to see if the Hunt would ride tonight. He knew what Leo was. And if the revenant was already out for the evening, Lucien would wait. He’d brought a ski mask to avoid revealing his identity to Theia’s twin.

  A little twinge of conscience tugged at him, reminding him that an insult or injury to one twin was likely to be felt by the other. Not physically, necessarily, but in terms of emotional harm, regardless of how close they were. And these two had seemed particularly close when he’d seen them together. He and his sister Lucy didn’t see eye to eye—after years of sibling rivalry fueled by their father’s vagaries, sometimes they downright hated each other—but he knew that if anything happened to Lucy, if anyone dared to hurt her, he’d be furious. He’d want retribution.

  But he couldn’t allow his feelings to get in the way of his mission. This wasn’t about him, in any event. It was about the kind of people the Smoks had cozied up to for hundreds of years. No, not people, but things. Lucien felt it was his duty to make up for the evil his family enabled.

  Helping a foolish family that had invited a demon into their home was one thing, and the routine cleansing of unwanted spir
itual activity was a necessary service, but Smok Consulting had covered up depravities—cleaning up blood-spattered rooms after a nest of bloodsuckers had engaged in a Caligula-style orgy and fed on their half-dead victims for days; disposing of bodies when a shape-shifter lost control and slaughtered its own family, and then allowing that shape-shifting abomination to start a new life somewhere else with no consequences. The thought of how many lives his own family had allowed to be destroyed, looking the other way in the name of professional reputation and profit, sickened him.

  One of the key sources of tension between Lucy and him was her blasé attitude toward all of it, her seeming acceptance of the status quo. She was ambitious and had made it her life’s goal to show Lucien up and prove to their father that he’d made a mistake in choosing his heir. It was never going to do any good. Edgar was immovable, but Lucien was happy to let Lucy take the lead and the credit, to let himself seem lazy and spoiled. The longer his father was motivated to keep putting off retirement, the better. And Lucy was just better at business, which didn’t interest Lucien in the least.

  Rhea and Leo were staying at one of Rafe Diamante’s properties in his absence—Lucien had been tracking them since the reception—a gated community in northeast Sedona. Luckily, the Smok family connections gave him access to any of a number of exclusive communities here and around he world. He had no problem getting in. Rhea’s car, a red Mini, wasn’t parked in the drive at Diamante’s house, which could mean they were both out. But the lights were on inside.

  He pulled his ski mask over his face as he got out of the car, loaded an arrow in the crossbow and lined up the sight on the scope.

  Luck was on his side tonight. The revenant walked in front of the large picture window, looking down at something on the coffee table in the great room. Sheer curtains were drawn across the window, giving Lucien the advantage. He could see Leo perfectly through them but wouldn’t be visible from within.

  The image of Theia’s face popped into his head, making him hesitate just for a moment. But Lucien wasn’t responsible for the fact that the Valkyrie had created an abomination Theia’s sister happened to be dating. This creature had stalked the earth long enough. It needed to be put down. Forget about Theia. Easier said than done, but anger at himself propelled Lucien forward, and he took his shot straight through the glass, not wanting to waste the opportunity.