Blood Rush: Book Two of the Demimonde

by Ash Krafton

  My spirit soared. "Really? Thanks, I—"

  She cut me off with an imperious lift of her hand. "Keep in mind that I am here in your lands for a short time only. I, too, am reluctant to spend time away from my people. I do not wish for any of my moments here to be wasted."

  "Of course not."

  "Good." She smiled once more, like the sun breaking free of the clouds. She seemed to swing back and forth between royal stiffness and gracious helpfulness. I wasn't sure which face she favored but I fervently hoped it would be the latter. "I have primary business to attend and my correspondence takes precedence to your tutoring. You will accommodate me, of course."

  I nodded. I had a distinct impression she would be a royal pain in the ass but I always said beggars couldn't be choosers. Unfortunately, in this case, I felt more like a beggar than ever. "Let me know what works best for you. I really appreciate your time."

  "You are most welcome," she purred. "I am sure our meetings will be mutually beneficial."

  Rodrian picked me up in his silver Audi TTS the next morning and took me out to The Stocks for a walk-through.

  What a harrowing ride. He zipped in and around traffic like a kid playing Pole Position. Sports cars made me nervous, especially ones that weren't designed to do well in high speed crashes.

  But his driving wasn't really what was bothering me. All of the weaving in and out of traffic simply added to my apprehension about returning to the last place Marek and I had spent time together as a couple.

  Today's venture wasn't intended to be a trip down memory lane. I was supposed to view the property, look at the suites, and get an idea of what I'd do with the place. Rodrian knew I'd only had a limited tour during my brief stay there. I didn't clarify that I'd only seen the gym, the pool, and Marek's bedroom. That sounded trashy no matter the circumstances.

  The porch seemed wider than I remembered, the double doors more massive and intimidating, the foyer ceiling higher and colder. I'd half-feared that ghosts of those memories would attack me at the door but, in the late morning light, everything looked different. Younger. Sharper.

  Amazing what a different slant of the sun could do. It was like Oil of Olay married Mr. Clean.

  I'd also half-expected to see the place full of white-sheeted furniture ghosts but there weren't any of those, either. Rodrian explained the staff kept the house ready so it never had lain completely empty. The thought of mysterious staff living in the same house with me wasn't encouraging, so I settled for pretending I'd be moving into a hotel.

  He disarmed the alarm while I glanced around. The only new thing I noticed was a bunch of lilies in a vase upon the side table. Crossing the foyer, he beckoned me to follow him to a set of two enormous pocket doors, which he slid open to reveal a den. A grand fireplace occupied the far wall and an impressive bar had been set up in the front corner. Two couches and a huge armchair made a very casual and inviting group, implying the room had been designed for the enjoyment of company.

  The first thing that struck me was the color: red.

  Not sultry lipstick red, or Santa suit red, or even Coke bottle red. Earthy red, baked clay red, inside-of-my-eyelids-on-a-spring-morning red. Grounded and substantial.

  Thick carpet of short burgundy plush cushioned my feet without sucking them in, and stretched wall to wall in a subtle pattern of dark and light diamonds. Here was a cozy closeness the cold foyer lacked.

  Walls of dark paneling stretched toward an unadorned beige ceiling. Wine drapes over sheer ivory curtains matched the chocolate-cherry upholstering of the furniture. Warmth. Comfort. And strangely, food. Appetites would be awakened in here.

  Red and lots of it. I'd never been in a red room before but I guessed I couldn't say that anymore.

  Back out in the foyer, he pointed to the open archway leading to the dining room and kitchen beyond. "The housekeeper wanted to know if you had any...culinary persuasions."

  I tried not to snort. "Ah, not really. Why? I don't have to do KP, do I?"

  "No." He sounded relieved. "Bethany likes to be in charge and hoped you didn't have any thoughts about trying to take over."

  "You mean she won't let me in there at all? Not even to do dishes?"

  Rodrian shoved his hands into his pockets. "Will you be angry if I said no?"

  "No. I mean, it's her kitchen, right?" Secretly, I rejoiced. My idea of a three-course meal was a Hot Pocket, Ritz crackers, and Edy's for dessert. "I wouldn't want to cramp her style. I'm sure whatever she does will be fine. If she ever needs anything, of course I'll be glad to help."

  "I'll let her know. Now, the lower west wing houses the garage and guest suite..." He opened the deadbolt and swung open the double doors. "You can keep the doors open if you like. It's just habit I keep them locked."

  I shrugged my indifference and rubbed my fingers together, glancing over my shoulder at the twin staircases sweeping up toward the second floor, where the living quarters were located. Rodrian cleared his throat, reclaiming my attention. "You can see them later, if you'd like. Why don't we head upstairs?"

  The right side of the second floor housed Marek's private rooms, which took up the majority of the east side of the house. Rodrian tactfully only pointed out the left as he led me upstairs.

  The upper wings were separated in the center by a lush private office, similar in shape and size to the den directly below it. Here, too, was a fireplace, clean and dark with disuse but the bar had been replaced by an office nook and the carpeting with gleaming hardwood. A staunch antique desk set sat facing the room while full bookcases lined the walls, forming a picture perfect backdrop for a lawyer's ad.

  The desk was in current use, covered with a familiar spread of leather folders and fountain pens. Rodrian confirmed my suspicions with a grin. "You must have me all figured out. I've run the estate affairs from here. My brother didn't come here often in recent years and never used this office, anyway."

  I walked to the windows and pushed aside the white curtains, revealing French doors that opened out to a balcony. Pressing my face to the glass and turning my head, I realized the balcony wrapped around behind the fireplace to another French door on the other side.

  The balcony overlooked the grounds behind the house. A large stone patio and gazebo took up a large amount of space down to my left, and the rest of the grounds sprawled out into empty field. Beyond the field, some distance off, stood a tall forest, deep with stark trees, presumably black oaks. No other house was in sight.

  Having lived in the city for so long, the view amazed me, and I warmed to the prospect of seeing that splendid piece of God every day. It was hard to look away. "I'm kind of partial to my old desk. I could just set it over here by the windows and you could keep yours where it is."

  "This is your place now, Soph. You can do whatever you'd like. These records can go back to my office."

  "No, really. Just keep it. You'll be here often enough, I imagine, to check on Shiloh and stuff."

  "Whatever suits." He shrugged. "It's nice of you to offer. I appreciate it." His voice sounded non-committal but his power was positively glowing.

  "Hey," I joked. "Mi casa es su casa."

  "No." He rubbed his mouth, expression difficult to read. "It's definitely not my casa. So, want to go see the suites now? You can pick any one you want."

  He gave me a sidelong glance. "Maybe even decide today?"

  "What's the hurry?"

  "Shiloh. She's waiting for you to pick your room."

  I laughed. "Little eager, huh?"

  "There's that." He paused to flip through a few papers on the desk. "Brianda got a call earlier. Her obligations are...pressing. The sooner we get you girls settled, the better."

  His tour revealed six separate suites the size of mini-apartments in the left wing. Each suite was decorated in a different shade and had its own sitting room and bath; three of them shared a common area made up of an open den and a kitchenette. I couldn't imagine why Marek, the ultimate loner, would have built a house fill
ed with spare bedrooms.

  Perhaps he built it with dreams of a large family in mind. I guessed, in Marek's current condition, a family of his own was firmly past consideration. At least with Rodrian's girls moving in, it would seem like part of that dream could be reality.

  I'd been determined not to think of him while I was here, trying to reduce his presence to an objective, factual minimum. One simple sympathetic thought was all it took for his essence to take hold. Marek's memory lingered as we concluded the tour of the wing and returned to the top of the staircase.

  Catching the briefest scent of leather and sandalwood near the open office door, I peered down the hallway leading to Marek's quarters. The scent was like an invisible touch on my shoulder, holding my attention.

  If I had to stay here, I had to face it all now.

  Great windows lined the front of the house, designed to let light stream into the hallways of each of the upper wings. On Marek's side the drapes had been drawn, causing the long hall to disappear into uninviting shadows. It seemed like even the light was forbidden access to the abandoned quarters. Determined to stare down my past, I confronted the shadows and headed down the hallway. Rodrian quietly followed behind.

  The air felt different in this part of the house and, as I neared the massive door that led to Marek's former chambers, I sensed something else. A stir of air, as if air itself was a living thing. I passed through a spot that felt like a radio between stations. The air buzzed along my skin, bathing me, submerging me, pressing into me with unseen fingers.

  The wards. They sizzled along my skin, raising goose bumps all the way up into my scalp, and I held my breath.

  Then, just as quickly, the sensation faded. The wards had recognized me and sighed away, granting me permission to continue.

  I twisted the heavy latch, an old-fashioned handle high up on the door. The room was dark. Stale air rushed out, a dusty taste with it. I stepped in cautiously, feeling for the light switch.

  Everything looked exactly as I had remembered it. I could have been here yesterday. If what Rodrian had implied was true, I was the last person to have been inside this room.

  The bar glinted with glass and crystal bottles, empty decorations. It was all for show. It was pretty, though, and I remembered how they sparkled when the colored lights shone behind them. A wide L-shaped couch faced the windows, its matching armchair pushed to the wall.

  A thick layer of dust coated the end table. I dragged my finger through it, leaving a streak. The staff didn't come in here to clean.

  I walked over to the windows and dragged open the heavy drapes and solid blinds, letting the light spill in. Immediately the room changed, taking on new life. Sunlight had a way of reviving things that had grown stale.

  It was a pleasant improvement. In the nonjudgmental sunlight, it was once more a hotel room, a rented space, a borrowed lodging. Shadows of the world made shadows of the heart much deeper. If I had my way, these curtains would never be shut again.

  Turning around, I noticed a dusty paper on the bar and picked it up. It bore my handwriting, a note penned on the back of an office memo regarding the Citywide Expo I had attended last year.

  I'd spent a long time trying to forget that event. The whole thing was supposed to be a lousy waste of a weekend spent dealing with work. Over the weeks leading up to it, I'd built up a healthy supply of dread and disgust and resentment for the office manager, Donna, who'd hosed me into doing it. The expo was a PR event, and I'm just not a PR person.

  Little did I know that stupid expo was the beginning of The Crap That Almost Killed Me. I'd been ambushed by vamps in the parking garage, part of a set-up organized by that jealous vamp slut Donna. They had actually shackled me to a wall. Really. Shackles. In Balaton. It's not like they sell them at Pier 1 Imports.

  Closing my eyes, I took a steadying breath. I'd worked desperately to create this sardonic bubble of disdain for the whole thing in order to forget it but once I start thinking about it, I can't stop. I balled my fists, clenched my teeth, willed myself to stop, just stop. Don't go there.

  But this memory was a landslide. Once I slipped, it was all downhill, swept along with everything I'd felt or known or wished. I remembered Donna, getting her just but cruel desserts. I remembered the Master, the beauty, the voice, the touch inside my head. I remembered Jared, my best friend, my last sight of him a lifeless pile on the floor.

  Don't. Please.

  I remembered Marek, reduced to a seething predator. His eyes a violent emerald fire, his teeth fully bared, his DV power a roil of hate and desire and destruction. When the Master unleashed Marek, he grabbed me. There was nothing of my lover in him. He was cold, alien. He ripped my throat and devoured me. I should have died.

  Why didn't I die? I did, I did. Just not all the way.

  And I have lived with it every single day since.

  So much for not remembering. I brushed the page off to read it.

  Honey, if you get back before me, this is where I'm at. I know you want me to stay here, but if I don't show up, Donna will kill me. I won't be long, I promise. Love, S.

  I stared at it, the letters swelling and blurring, caught between one thought and the dreaded next. He was gone. The Crap That Almost Killed Me pretty much killed Marek, too, because he wasn't Marek anymore. He was a DV on the Brink of Falling. And I wasn't doing anything about it.

  "Sophie?" Rodrian's muffled voice startled me out of my reverie. "Are you okay?"

  "Yeah," I lied. Crumpling the note, I tossed it into the trash can behind the bar. "Why are you still out there?"

  After a slight hesitation, he cleared his throat. "I didn't want to try the wards."

  "Oh." Hmmm. A ponderous thing. "I'll just look around a bit more, if it's okay."

  "It's fine. I'll wait downstairs for you." The sound of footsteps retreated down the hall.

  Three doors led from the parlor. One opened into a guest half bath, which looked as if it'd never been used. Another revealed a personal library I'd never be able to ignore, no matter how hard I'd try. The third...well, it was Marek's bedroom quarters.

  Not his, I reminded myself. These weren't his rooms anymore.

  I stood in the doorway, taking it in and facing my ghosts. A four-post king-size bed loomed against the far wall, curtains closed and quiet. The furniture reflected the styles of antiquity Marek had always seemed to prefer. All in all, I have to say I took it quite well, despite having glimpsed my old overnight bag moldering on the bureau.

  By the time I made my way back out to the staircase where Rodrian waited, I wore a painted-on smile and had made two decisions.

  First, I'd picked my rooms and second, that bed would have to go.

  Once Rodrian accepted my decision, it didn't take long for Shiloh to settle in. By the time the movers pulled up to the doors with my belongings a week later, Shiloh had already made herself at home and was putting the kitchen staff to rigorous use. She met me at the door in a whirlwind of hugs and chatter and swept me up the stairs toward the tri-suites where she and her sister had settled.

  The tri-suites reminded me of the dorm I'd lived in during college. Okay, so maybe we didn't have a thirty six-inch widescreen plasma television or a Bose sound system. Still, close enough. If someone hung up a poster proclaiming that everything I needed to know I'd learned on Star Trek, it would be sophomore year all over again.

  Shiloh must have unpacked like the Furies hounded her because it looked as if she'd been here for years instead of days.

  "How'd you get it all moved in so fast?" I plucked a throw pillow off the futon and fluffed it. "You haven't been skipping school, have you?"

  "I tried," she said. "But Dad's a truant officer. He really believes in the existence of the Permanent Record." She rolled the inner bag shut in a box of Cheez-Its and tucked the lid flap closed. "He's the one who took care of getting it all done."

  "Wow. He does have a sense for design, after all."

  "Hardly. He just did what he always does when t
here's real work to be done. He cheats."

  Figured. He was such a brat. "Cheats? You mean...uses his talents?"

  "No," Rodrian said from the doorway. "I delegate the work."

  I almost jumped. The way the DV could just sneak up on you drove me nuts.

  "Lazy," I said.

  "Resourceful." He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. "Sophie, when you're done, come downstairs, please?"

  "Okay." Neither his expression nor his power gave me a hint. "I'll be down soon."

  As I turned back to Shiloh, I glanced into the open bedrooms. Only Shiloh seemed to have unpacked—one bedroom was still empty and the middle was full of sealed boxes. "Is Brianda here?"

  "Not yet," Shiloh said. "Her stuff is here but I don't know when she'll actually show up. She's busy with Uncle Marek again. She'll come home sooner or later." Shiloh grabbed my hand and tugged me into the efficiency kitchen just beyond the common room, dropping the cracker box on the counter. "And look! Bethany said if I promise to stay out of the big kitchen downstairs, she'd keep the fridge stocked up here. Oh..."

  She sighed blissfully and stroked the microwave with a tender touch. "I love this microwave. It's got two popcorn settings and there's a bacon tray up here and..."

  Eventually I extracted myself from her jubilation and headed downstairs to see what Rodrian wanted. I paused to watch two men bringing my desk upstairs. Sobering to realize I'd been able to pack my entire life into a U-Haul.

  When they reached the top of the stairs, I recognized Greco, one of Rodrian's security guards. Security guard might be too timid a term. Rodrian's force was more like a SWAT team. I called them his "muscle" and other various terms of endearment. They were good guys.

  For the most part, anyway. Andre Caen, Cordula's manager and all-around Mr. Bad Time, was definitely not one of the guys. Could be why I didn't see Caen getting his hands dirty carrying in my boxes. I still couldn't figure out why Rodrian gave him so much authority, why he made Caen his right-hand man. Maybe their shared history made up for Caen's lousy personality.