by Lisa Marie
For the first time in Cyrus couldn’t remember how long, fear for his own safety wormed its way into his brain. He didn’t have long to ponder it before the claws on the hand around his throat bit painfully into his flesh.
“This is going to be fun.”
* * * *
Twenty minutes later, Edward let himself out the back door of the house, and smoothed the lapels of his suit. He gave a quick jerk of his head to crack the vertebrae. Then, with a file tucked under his arm and several computer disks stuffed in his pockets, he headed home, human features firmly in place.
Chapter Eleven
Mark woke with a start, his eyes wide and unseeing. A fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, and his heart beat hard against his ribs. He gasped desperately for air, turning to sit on the edge of the bed and dropping his head between his knees. He hadn’t had the dream in years. As he grew, it had retreated to the back of his subconscious, gone but never forgotten. He had thought that he had finally overcome it, finally put the ghosts of his dead parents to rest. Apparently he hadn’t.
He shoved his hands into his sweat-dampened hair and gave a tug, as if the pain could dispel the last of the horrible memories. Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He wasn’t a scared twelve-year old boy anymore. That boy had died the night he had looked into his grandfather’s eyes and said “show me”. But that dream, whenever it decided to push its way out of the door he had locked it behind, could reduce him to that boy all over again. It seemed so real, he could almost smell his mother’s perfume, feel his father’s hand as it ruffled his hair. Almost could see the death stalking them in their own home. The death that he had let inside.
It was a testament to how badly the dream had affected him that Mark hadn’t sensed his companion waking. He could feel the person’s gaze on his back now. Maybe it was his show of vulnerability that had the person sliding across the space that separated them and reaching out to touch him. The second fingers brushed the smooth, warm skin of his back, Mark’s instincts kicked in.
Before Brie could react, a steely grip seized her wrist and she found herself hauled half into his lap. He held her an inch from his face, a snarl pulling back his lips and his black eyes glinting dangerously in the moonlight that bled in through the windows.
“M-Mark?” she breathed, his name barely audible over the pounding of her heart.
His fingers loosened a fraction on her arms, his mouth relaxed and recognition flared in his eyes. “Brie?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry,” Mark whispered.
Her brows drew together at how desperate the words sounded, and she wondered if he was even talking to her.
“I-it’s okay. I startled you.” She instinctively reached up and ran her fingers over his cheek.
She found the scar on his jaw and traced it with her thumb. Wetness dusted his skin, telling her that he had been crying. Her heart constricted and she felt a need to comfort swell. She shifted as much as she could in his lap, mindless of how little she had on. Even though he looked as hard as he ever did, his eyes held a haunted edge and a deep, bone-jarring sadness. Mark’s hands fell away as she moved and he just sat, his eyes searching her face.
Brie used her freedom to quickly straddle his lap, her hands coming up to the hard planes of his cheeks, her fingers gently stroking the stubble roughened skin.
“I-I didn’t mean to do it,” he gasped, blinking rapidly. She didn’t know what he was talking about, didn’t really care at the moment.
“I know,” she whispered, one hand cradling his cheek while the thumb of her other traced under his eyes, gathering his tears. Whatever had happened, whatever he’d been dreaming about, had stripped away the gruff shield he normally wore. Brie had a feeling she was finally seeing the real Mark.
Mark looked at the woman sitting astride his lap, took in the kindness of her vibrant eyes, the feel of her soothing touch on his face, and felt himself start to relax. His hands were resting on her thighs, and unconsciously, they started to knead the firm flesh, feeling the silkiness of it. At this moment, it didn’t matter that they were relative strangers, or that just a few hours before they had been at each other’s throats. All that mattered was the need for comfort.
Brie’s fingers traced the lines of his face, memorizing each dip and plane and the feel of his stubble. Her thumb slid over the soft flesh of his bottom lip, trying to ease the almost undetectable trembling there. She gasped in surprise and raised her eyes to meet his when his tongue darted out.
The air shifted and thickened around them as his gaze burned into hers. As if a switch had been flipped in her brain, she realized the intimacy of their position. She was wearing nothing more than her T-shirt and underwear and he was only in his jeans, the rough denim scraping the insides of her thighs and calves. His warm, long fingers were splayed across her thighs, the heat from his hands branding her. Suddenly nervous, she shifted a bit, and nearly whimpered when she felt the evidence of her effect on him press intimately against her center. Every nerve awakened with heat at the discovery, and her breath caught in her throat.
“Brie,” he breathed, the word silky and rough at the same time. The rawness of his voice sent a thrill through her to settle where their bodies were pressed intimately together.
“Y-yes?”
His eyes drifted closed and he rubbed his cheek against her palm, sighing contentedly. Her heart clenched. She curved her hand around his cheek and felt a wave of heat spread from that point of contact to encompass her entire body. When he opened his eyes again, he pinned her with a gaze so full of desire there was no way she could mistake it for anything else.
“Is this real?”
She blinked at his question, and it took her a moment to realize what he was asking. “Yes.”
“Good,” he growled.
With a speed she hadn’t been expecting, Brie found herself pinned on the bed with six feet plus worth of hard muscle nestled securely between her thighs. His mouth closed over hers in a demanding kiss, and all thought retreated to the back of her mind.
* * * *
Flora didn’t get far down the tunnel before she turned around and started back. She whispered a few words and a small, ball of light appeared in front of her, chasing away the worst of the shadows and discouraging the rats from crossing her path. The spell was better than a flashlight and far easier to carry. Between going back and creating the floating light bouncing in front of her, she was taking a huge risk. She was a beacon now, attracting anything and everything that might be inhabiting the sewer tunnel. She had to get back to Cyrus, had to fulfill the promise she had made to Maggie’s spirit all those years ago. She had to make sure he was all right.
She hurried as quickly as her large frame would allow, refusing to think of what she might find when she got there. Or if she would suffer whatever fate Cyrus might have. She couldn’t leave him, no matter what the crusty old bastard had told her to do. Fear had spurred her out of there, and now fear was taking her back.
As she slowly made her way through the dark tunnel, her eyes trained on the bubble of light she’d created, her mind wandered back to that night; that terrible, horrible, heartbreaking night. The night that Maggie had died, and left her husband, daughter and best friend behind to struggle through without her. It had been Maggie and Cy’s anniversary, a night of celebration. They had left Wanda with Flora and had gone out for a quiet dinner by themselves. Everything had gone perfectly, as it should have.
They were a beautiful couple, seemingly charmed. Cyrus was older than Maggie, already well established in his career as a Professor of Paranormal Psychology, and she was an up and coming artist. Her images of vampires, ghostly houses and other creatures had turned the art world on its ear. They had met when Cyrus had attended one of her early showings, and had immediately been smitten with each other. Maggie used to tease him that he studied the things that went bump in the night and she painted them. In fact, when it had come time for Cyrus to publish his
thoughts on all that was otherworldly, Maggie herself had done the illustrations.
Flora had never been sure whether or not he had really believed everything he wrote about and taught. At least, not until that night, when it had proven its realness in the worst way possible.
She had never gotten the full story of what had happened that night. Cy had determined never to talk about it, and she could only get the details on the part Ash had played that night. All she knew was that by the time Ash had appeared on the scene, Maggie was already dead and Cyrus was being beaten bloody by two of the three vampires. Ash had disposed of the two, but the third had gotten away. The one that had killed Maggie. That, Flora knew, was the sole reason Cyrus had started hunting.
It had been at Maggie’s funeral, with the sky leaking down on them like God himself was crying for the loss of such a bright, vibrant creature, that Flora had made her promise. Wanda had been a little girl left to be raised by a man engulfed in his own suffering, and so Flora had promised to take care of them both and to keep them safe. She had failed miserably with Wanda. And now it looked like she was going to fail with Cyrus, as well. She offered up a prayer of forgiveness to her friend, hoping that Maggie would understand.
Shaking off the ghosts of the past, Flora took a deep, fortifying breath and came to a stop outside the panel that led back into Cyrus’ basement. She raised a shaking hand and felt for the hidden switch, ignoring the slime and who knew what else that coated the wall. She dispelled the light ball as the panel slid back and quickly stepped through. She froze the second she was in the basement. Fear clogged her throat and planted her feet, making the short distance to the stairs seem like miles.
Knock it off, old woman. It’s not like you’re completely defenseless. She pricked her ears for any sound out of the ordinary, and forced herself forward. She moved quietly up to the first floor, and carefully stepped into the kitchen. Tears flooded her eyes as the distinctive smell of death surrounded her and she had to take several, shallow breaths to keep her stomach from rebelling. Her entire body trembled as she started forward, her gaze darting around, searching out Cyrus.
“Oh, God, no!” she breathed, when her eyes landed on the sight that proved her worst fears to be true.
Cyrus’ body lay just inside the hallway, ripped to shreds, his faded blue eyes wide and glassy. She didn’t realize that her knees had caved on her until she hit the floor with a thud. Hard, painful sobs shook her as she reached out to the body of her friend, her hand sliding carefully over his face to close his eyes. “You can see Maggie now. And Wanda. You can finally go home,” she whispered, sniffling loudly.
Wiping tears away, Flora stood and went back into the kitchen. Without taking her eyes off Cyrus’ body, she dialed 911. She automatically answered the operator’s questions, while her mind skipped ahead to finding and telling Mark.
A sense of calm started to spread through her as she hung up, now that she had something to focus on. The boy was going to be devastated, and she was more than a little afraid of his reaction. Mark’s world had died once before, almost thirteen years ago. This would finish it off. And she was afraid that Ash wouldn’t take it much better.
“Goodbye, Cyrus Tanner. You mean old coot,” she said in final farewell to the man she had argued with for a large chunk of her life, and then sat down on the couch to wait for the police.
* * * *
Sebastian watched as Ash prowled around the room, checking the door and windows. Eve lay sleeping on the bed, her body curled in a fetal position, Ash’s bloodstained shirt hugged tightly around her. He could see her twitch every once in awhile as if something was chasing her in her dreams. A cold smile pulled at his lips that he had finally cracked her armor and made her drop that hard facade she always wore. Fear looked good on Evelyn.
He had, of course, been more than a little surprised at the turn of events in the room. His purpose of putting her there, with the ravenous vampire, was to wipe the smug look off her face. He had a guard on standby, ready to burst into the room if things got too out of hand. His intention had been to scare her. At first, his plan had worked. Then the tide had changed so swiftly, so unexpectedly, that all Sebastian had been able to do was stare in fascination. There was no sound on the cameras, so there was no way to be sure of what had transpired between them once Ash had finally bitten her. But if he were so inclined, Sebastian would bet his entire fortune that the pair were now mated.
Very interesting, indeed, he thought as he steepled his fingers and rested his chin on them. He had never felt the need to claim anyone before and never really understood the novelty of it. So many vampires’ downfalls could be attributed directly to the claim, and he couldn’t grasp why so many continued to pursue it. Often times, a vampire would die protecting his claim, or kill another trying to challenge it. It only cemented to Sebastian that love was a folly best left to poets and artists.
Not that he had never been smitten in his human life. He still held a soft spot in his dead heart for the first and only girl he had ever loved. Anna-Rose. A beautiful London girl whose father owned the shipping company Sebastian had worked for. He had fooled himself into believing there had to be a chance of the fair maiden loving him back, even though he was no more than one of three accountants her father employed, with very little money of his own.
On the night that he had been foolish enough to express his love, all the while shifting in his too tight, second hand shoes and tugging nervously on his frayed clothing, Anna-Rose had ripped out his heart with a look of disdain and a coldly turned shoulder.
She had broken his heart that night. And he had run blindly out into the rough streets of London, broken and blind from the tears rushing from his eyes. Now, instead of ire, he felt a deep gratitude for the girl. Without her, he never would have turned down that dark alley. He never would have fallen prey to his sire, and he certainly never would have become what he was today.
Even though he had gone back to her house after he had awoken reborn and slaughtered her, her parents and every servant in a show of bloodlust he had not felt before or since, he had nothing but nice thoughts for her. After all, it was her father’s shipping company that had given him his start. The same shipping company the old man signed over to the young vampire in a vain effort to save his quivering, spoiled daughter. Even then, Sebastian had wanted more and, when he was turned, it was like the mysteries of how to achieve it were suddenly at his fingertips.
Despite that one, brief dalliance into the world of love, he had never found much use for it, other than as a means to an end. It had been incredibly easy to get Brianne to believe that he was in love with her, ridiculously easy to get her to move in with him, and almost unbelievably easy to use her tender feelings to get her to cooperate with him. She had been a rare find indeed. A Siren that believed in love, so young and silly, just like he had been once, and so simple to manipulate.
A knock on the door drew Sebastian out of his memories and his pondering on the captive pair. “Come,” he ordered, swiveling in his chair.
Edward walked across the room, a wide grin on his face. He dropped into a chair. “Mission accomplished.”
“I take it the old man was there.”
“Yep. And he wasn’t so tough. Don’t know why he had half the vamps in town freaking out.”
“Perhaps it is the grandson that is the real threat. Any forward strides in finding his whereabouts?”
“Got the techie people working on the disks that I found in Tanner’s house. The trail is too cold for me to try to find them myself, but the techs might be able to find a place for me to start.” He jerked his head to indicate the screens behind Sebastian, a leer curving his mouth. “What’s going on in there?”
“Nothing of your concern. Although, I do believe it’s time we bring in Mr. Marshall for another ‘chat’.”
Edward’s face twisted with confusion. “I don’t get it. What is it with that guy? I mean, you haven’t asked him or that broad once where Brie is.”
Sebastian’s eyes narrowed and flashed red. The werewolf didn’t even blink.
“Neither of them would tell me. Surely you must realize that? Evelyn’s devotion to her sister, while admirable, will ensure her lips stay proverbially sealed. She will die to keep her safe. Mr. Marshall is a vampire that was sired by the cruelest vampiress of this century. Nothing I can do to him will have him talking, either. So, asking them where she is would be a waste of my time. That’s not to say I cannot entertain myself with them. And they are proving to be most entertaining.”
For the first time since Edward had come into his employ, the red light shining in Sebastian’s eyes had an involuntary shiver racing up his spine. There was a coldness there he had never seen before. And while he respected coldness, he was starting to think he might have underestimated the mental stability of the vampire.
He covered his unease with a bored shrug, and pushed himself out of the chair. “Whatever. Have fun. I’m going to go see what the techs have found.”
Sebastian waited until Edward was out of the room before turning back to his monitors. He picked up the phone and pressed a button as he watched Ash give the door a frustrated pound.
“Please go get Mr. Marshall and take him down to the basement,” he spoke into the phone. “Make sure he is securely tethered, but able to move around freely. I’ll be down presently.” He hung up and, after one last glimpse at the screen, left his office. It was time to push Ash’s limits again. He wanted to see how much it would take before the vampire snapped.
* * * *
“Dammit!” Ash hissed as he pounded a fist against the solid metal door.
Frustration coursed through him, warring with the hunger clawing at his stomach and the fear sliding through his veins. In a hundred plus years, he had never felt quite this level of anxiety about any given situation. But he had also never dealt with the level of intelligence Sebastian seemed to possess.
The door, from what he could figure, was made of heavy steel. Not impossible for him to get through, but the guards would be alerted to his attempts long before he’d made much more than a dent in it. The windows were covered with bars. Easier to get through, but, as he had found out when he peered outside, they were too far up for him to get them both down to the ground safely.