by Tamara Hogan
But damn, the things Wyland hadn’t told her. According to these materials, he was quite the political mover and shaker, advising royalty and military alike. His research into blood, particularly transfusion, had resulted in some of ‘humanity’s’ earliest hematology advances.
As for his personal life... She pulled up an enlargement of the scanned photograph that she’d quickly glanced at the previous night. Lyceum Theatre - Opening Night - July 1896. Wearing a beautiful Victorian tailcoat, a crisp white shirt and tie, and smiling for the camera, a marginally younger-looking Wyland stood in front of the theatre with another man, and with his arm wrapped around the nipped-in waist of an absolutely stunning redhead. Actress? Mistress? Paramour? Whoever the woman was, Tia would bet her trust fund that she and Wyland had just rolled out of bed. She leaned toward the photo, and read the names written in faded ink along the picture’s border. “Who are you, Deirdre d’Amour?” she murmured to the lushly curved woman. She didn’t want to think about what the other woman had done to put that relaxed, sex-soaked smile on Wyland’s face.
The other man, Abraham Stoker, was similarly dressed, wearing a black Victorian tailcoat, and— “What?” Abraham Stoker? Bram Stoker? Wyland knew the man who’d written Dracula? “Awesome.”
Her phone rang. She considered letting it go to voice mail, but put it on speaker when she saw it was Bailey.
“Are you at your computer?” Bailey said. “I’m going to send you a link.”
She’d spent so much time on the phone with Bailey over the last couple of days that the other woman’s lack of phone etiquette didn’t faze her anymore. Obtaining access to the Archives had taken more time and effort than she’d anticipated. “Did you know Wyland knew Bram Stoker?” she asked. “The guy who wrote Dracula?”
“Whatever. Incoming.”
A soft chime announced the arrival of the link in her chat window. She recognized the base URL. Why was Bailey sending her a link to a comment at In Like Quinn? “The story about crappy handicapped access in public buildings?”
“Read it.”
She clicked on the comment. “‘Jacoby Woolf’s father should put him down like the damaged mongrel he is.’” A sick feeling washed over her. Like the previous comment, this one was marginally on-topic, but… “Someone’s using my website to make threats against the Council.”
“It seems that way,” Bailey said. “After the first comment about Coco was posted, I wrote a script to find and flag comments made about Council members and their families, but I never expected anyone to be stupid enough to actually mention a Council member by their full name. I’m trying to track it back, but, like the other comment, it’s anonymized pretty damn well.”
“Isn’t that hard to do?”
“Not nearly as hard as it used to be.”
Hmm. “‘Put him down?’ What kind of prehistoric throwback says something like that?”
“It’s classic Genetic Purity League.”
“And it’s batshit insane.”
Bailey didn’t disagree. “Does In Like Quinn have a moderation policy? Standards of behavior, terms of use and such?”
“Yes.” Freedom of speech didn’t mean freedom from consequences, and this person had crossed her line. With a couple of clicks, she put the comment into Moderation state, making its offensive text invisible to readers. “Done,” she said. “Feel free to moderate other messages if you feel it’s necessary.”
There was a long pause. “Okay.”
Bailey, with her hacker pedigree, was no doubt looking at the same admin screen she was, password be damned.
“Have you seen Wyland recently?” Bailey asked. “He’s not answering his phone.”
She almost laughed at Bailey’s grumpy tone. Tethered to gadgets 24/7, Bailey clearly couldn’t conceive of someone making a different choice. “We worked together at the Archives a couple of nights ago, but I haven’t heard from him since.” So much for his promise. “Valerian and I have a movie date in a couple of hours.” She and Valerian had enjoyed themselves so much watching Downton Abbey together the other night that he’d asked her to visit again, and to bring a movie from her vast collection. Tonight’s feature would be The Hunger, with Bowie, Sarandon, and Deneuve. “If I see Wyland, I can let him know you’d like to speak with him.”
“Please do,” Bailey said. “Talk to you soon.”
“’Bye.”
What was Wyland’s deal? For a man so hung up on etiquette, he sure was rude. She picked up the pen, tapping it against the top of her desk. She wasn’t due at Valerian’s for a couple of hours yet, but he’d issued an open invitation, telling her to come over any time.
She logged out of ILQ, saved her research files, logged out of the Archives, and powered down. As she stalked upstairs to take a shower, she spared another thought to her overlong grass. Maybe she’d have to call in those goats after all, because right now, instead of mowing, she was going to give the Vampire Second a giant piece of her mind.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress in Valerian’s bedroom, Wyland studied his patient, lying in bed with his upper body propped up by pillows. Val had passed a comfortable day’s sleep. He was alert, his color was good, and his lungs were clearer tonight than they’d been yesterday. The antibiotics were finally starting to work.
“Why do you insist on doing this? We both know what the problem is. I’m old.” Valerian pushed away the stethoscope and buttoned his flannel pajama top. “Write that on my tombstone, Wyland. ‘He was old.’”
“Tombstone? I thought you wanted a Viking funeral.” Over the last twenty years, the funeral plans Valerian had considered included entombment in an unmarked Scottish cairn, floating away in a flaming pyre on the Ganges, classic Egyptian mummification, and having his ashes compressed into a diamond.
“Gene Roddenberry’s cremains were launched into space,” Valerian mused. “Now there’s a mighty fine send-off.”
Wyland put the stethoscope in the black bag sitting at his feet, trying to hide his exhaustion. Sebastiani Labs had an aerospace division. A similar celebration could definitely be arranged when the time came.
Whenever the time came, it would be too soon.
With a contented sigh, Valerian relaxed against the pillows, pushing aside the nasal cannula. They’d exchanged some harsh words about the oxygen tank standing next to the mahogany four-poster, an argument Wyland had won. But what good was winning the argument if Val wouldn’t use the thing?
“Sometimes I think Sigurd had the right idea.”
Wyland stilled, waiting for him to say more, but Val moved on to another topic. These days, having a conversation with Valerian was like skipping rocks, with Val jumping from subject to subject until he sank back into sleep, or into private reverie. And now he’d stopped speaking, lost in thought, looking into the middle distance with unfocused eyes. What did Val see? What did he remember?
He’d probably never know. “Would you like to feed?” Without waiting for an answer, Wyland walked to the other side of the bed, climbed onto the mattress, and lay down, cradling Valerian’s frail body in a gentle embrace.
“Have you finished emptying out the catacombs yet?” Valerian suddenly asked.
“Not yet.” During the last few days, he’d barely had time to breathe, much less empty the last dank alcove at the far end of the catacombs tunneled under the house. He’d spent hours at a Sebastiani Labs manufacturing facility, overseeing the final testing of a bagged blood formulation Sebastiani Labs had developed. And then there’d been Lukas’s request. Little Coco Fontaine, not yet born but already causing trouble—not that he could blame Lukas and Scarlett for asking him to confirm their daughter’s precise status. After many eye-blurring hours of research, he’d discovered nothing in their Council charter that would prohibit the mixed-species offspring of two sitting Council members from representing either species—or both species simultaneously, for that matter.
And he hadn’t had time to call Tia Quinn, but perhaps that was for the best.
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“Maybe Thane can help with the catacombs.” Valerian settled more comfortably into Wyland’s arms. “Sigurd’s trunk is back there.”
Sigurd’s trunk? In the catacombs? His pulse kicked as he surreptitiously checked Val’s.
“Stop that.”
Or perhaps not so surreptitiously.
“Wyland, I’m not going to die today.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” And no matter how much he wanted Valerian to reveal more information about Sigurd—a trunk in the catacombs?—Val needed to feed. He extended his right wrist to his First.
“You honor me,” Val murmured.
He and Valerian, the two most powerful vampires in the world, had exchanged blood for centuries, but the words still moved him.
“And I worry about you,” Val added.
“What? Why?”
“It’s been months since you’ve taken my vein. Who feeds you?”
“Thane. Or I drink bagged blood.” Drinking from the vein was the ultimate act of trust, bestowing healing, strength, and the ability to discern one’s emotional state to the drinker. Each pleasurable tug and pull created a connection, an echo in the blood, which could not be broken except by death. Deirdre been dead for years, but sometimes he swore he still felt her, throbbing in his head.
He’d learned the hard way that vulnerability was the price one paid for intimacy and pleasure.
“Bah,” Valerian scoffed. “Bagged blood contains all the nutrients you need, but where’s the warmth? Where’s the connection?” Valerian suckled at his wrist, preparing his cephalic vein for his bite. “And when was the last time you enjoyed a woman? Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you act around young Tia.”
“Young is right,” he said grimly.
“Wyland, she’s fully of age.” Another swirl of Valerian’s tongue. “I’m surprised at your historical relativism. Less than two hundred years ago, it was quite common for a young woman half her age to be married and have a half-dozen children.”
“Less than two hundred years ago, she wouldn’t have had much choice in the matter.” Such behavior persisted even into this time, with powerful men inflicting their attentions on beautiful young women who didn’t think they could refuse. He said as much to Valerian.
“Wyland, you’re not creeping on Tia.”
He blinked. “Creeping?”
“Sexually pursuing her in a stalker-like, inappropriate manner. You know, creeping.”
How easily current era slang slipped from Valerian’s lips. It always had. “You watch too much reality television, Val.”
“It’s a fine source of cultural information,” Valerian said against his wrist. “As far as I can tell, you’re not pursuing her at all, sexually or otherwise—which is a damn shame.”
“She’s barely out of the schoolroom.”
“She’s thirty years old, Wyland. She’s a homeowner, a businesswoman, and serves on the board of her parents’ charitable foundation.” Valerian paused. “I think she’s interested in you, too.”
“No, she’s not.” He could still feel her soft, pouty lips against his cheek, but that was his problem, not hers.
“You’re wrong. If you don’t believe me, ask Lukas.”
“I will not ask Lukas,” he said testily. The last thing he needed was an incubus playing matchmaker. “I don’t know that she’s interested in me as much as she’s…curious. She is a journalist, after all—a journalist who just got carte blanche access to our Archives. Against my recommendation, I might add.”
“I tell you, she’s interested in you. Sexually.”
His fangs tingled at Valerian’s frank words. “That doesn’t mean I have to do anything about it.”
“Why ever not?” Valerian asked, exasperated. “You want her. She wants you. She’s of age—she’s older than Deirdre was when you first met her—and you’re a vampire in his prime.” Valerian pointed a long, bony finger at him. “Don’t scowl at me. It’s long past time I said this aloud. Deirdre was a glorious creature who used her sexuality like a bludgeon. You fell in love with her, and—” Val gave a pragmatic shrug “—she didn’t reciprocate. It happens.”
He kept his face expressionless, lifting his mental drawbridge with exquisite subtlety. Over the years, he’d succeeded in keeping his suspicions about Deirdre’s deception from Valerian.
“Damn, boy, you haven’t had a relationship in over a century. Times have changed. There’s nothing stopping you from hooking up with Tia.”
A chuckle escaped at Val’s language. Hook up, have sexual congress with, fornicate, copulate, have coitus with, roger, tup, play hide the salami, fuck, make love with… However it was said, in whatever era, he wanted her. Sexually. In this, Valerian could read him like an open book.
“You’re too alone, Wyland. I worry about you.” With that, Val drove his fangs into Wyland’s wrist. The sting quickly subsided, and as Val suckled with a familiar pull and tug, Wyland relaxed back against the pillows, relaxed into the silence. It was very poor form to hold a one-sided conversation with someone who couldn’t respond.
And this was one conversation he didn’t want to continue.
Chapter Four
As she strode up the sidewalk leading to Vamp Central, a raindrop spat on her arm. Climbing the steps, she shifted the cardboard box of movies she carried to the other arm, then rang the doorbell. The eight-note Westminster chime clanged inside the house. One of the gargoyles lurking above the door had a glowing red eye, and she waved to whoever might be observing her from a security screen somewhere inside.
The locks disengaged with a series of clicks, and the door opened in a welcoming wedge of light. “Miss Tia.” Thane, Valerian’s majordomo, wore a flour-dusted apron that said Kiss the Cook. “Please, come in. Let me take that.”
She’d interrupted his work. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, handing him the box. “I’m early for my movie date with Valerian.” And she’d been so intent on chewing out Wyland that she hadn’t given a thought to how her early arrival might impact other members of the household.
“Please, please. Come in.” Thane gestured for her to enter the foyer, closing the door behind them. “Valerian’s so excited.”
Seven hundred years old, yet appearing a fit human seventy, Thane had graying red hair, a bruiser’s build, and a hint of a Scottish brogue. The vampire had served Valerian for as long as anyone could remember. Though he surely had a kilt and sporran in his closet, tonight, under the apron, he wore pressed blue jeans, a pale blue polo shirt, and brown leather sandals.
“I’m preparing Valerian’s breakfast tray. He’ll eat in his bedroom today, but Wyland should be down soon,” Thane said. “Let me set another place.”
She hadn’t anticipated chewing Wyland out over a cozy breakfast for two. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“He’ll appreciate the company.”
No, he wouldn’t. He’d tolerate it—maybe—but appreciate it? She’d never met a man more comfortable with solitude, but apparently Thane wasn’t going to take no for an answer. She followed him into the great room, her gaze skittering past the settee she’d shared with Wyland the other night. At odd moments, she swore she could still feel his muscled thigh against hers.
Thane set her box down on the bar, where a large silver urn towered over bone china cups and saucers so delicate she could almost see through them. Champagne flutes, wine goblets, and chunky highball and lowball glasses sat next to icy-cold pitchers of orange and tomato juice. Bloody Mary makings stood at the ready.
Breakfast at Vamp Central was a bit more of a production than it was at her place.
“Coffee? Some warm or chilled blood?”
“No, thank you. Please, go ahead and serve Valerian.”
He nodded. “Make yourself at home. Join me if you wish.” When he opened the heavy wood door leading to the kitchen, the scent of frying bacon wafted into the room.
Ignoring her growling stomach, she wandered over to the bookcase. There was the Fabe
rgé egg she’d admired the other night. White and pale blue enamel, encrusted with diamonds, topped by lions and an elephant and poised on a delicate tripod stand, it had to be worth a king’s ransom. It shared shelf space with a well-thumbed paperback set of Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles, a fist-sized agate, and a framed, matted photograph of…what was that? It looked as though someone had carved a rough map into a slab of solid rock. Forest to the left, waves carved into a huge void on the right. The land mass had a distinctive arrowhead shape.
She leaned closer, squinting. Was that a rocket, sailing over the trees?
The petroglyph cave. This had to be the petroglyph cave she’d heard about, one of the first discoveries at the northern Minnesota archaeological site theorized to be the location where their ancestors’ spaceship had crashed. The land mass was unmistakably northeastern Minnesota. The wavy void had to be Lake Superior.
“Amazing.” Now that she had access to the Archives, she could research all the discoveries they’d made at the site—not that she’d be able to do anything with the information other than satisfy her curiosity, but sometimes that was enough.
Wandering the length of the shelves, she admired Valerian’s treasures, wondering about the untold stories behind each item, in such a reverie that suddenly seeing so many pictures of Wyland on the last shelf startled her. Positioned on the center of the shelf was a framed and matted sketch of him as a young man, head bent over a thick book, his hair tucked behind his ear. Scattered around the sketch were other framed photographs, some yellowed with time and with swoopy, decorative edges, and others of more recent vintage. Several pictures were labeled with dates and locations, written in ink along the borders. Going by the dates and the fashions, the pictures spanned the late 1800s to current day, but in each, Wyland looked much the same, wearing a dark suit, with his pale hair lashed back in a low ponytail, ruthlessly exposing those knife-blade cheekbones. She peered at one picture, grinning. Even the Vampire Second hadn’t managed to side-step the seventies’ leisure suit craze. And there, tucked into the corner, was a copy of the picture she’d seen in Wyland’s Archive bio, of Wyland and Bram Stoker, with the beautiful Deirdre d’Amour cropped out of the picture.