by Tamara Hogan
As she continued the conversation with Thane and Valerian, her eyes sparkled with verve, with life. Her impish grin conveyed such energy and delight.
Had he ever been so young?
“Right now, I’m working on a story about human trafficking,” she said. “So many young people simply disappear, sold into sexual servitude. It’s a bigger problem than most people realize.”
His gaze whipped to Thane, whose flat expression camouflaged a hideous internal roar, a grief-stained rage that hadn’t waned over the years. Thane’s youngest sister had been stolen in a raid many years ago, never to be seen again.
Tia lowered her coffee cup, glancing at them warily. “Is everything okay?”
He and Valerian exchanged a quick glance. This wasn’t the first time Tia seemed to perceive something…more going on between the vampires in her immediate vicinity without the benefit of a shared blood bond.
“Please,” Thane said. “Continue. You’re working on a human trafficking story?”
“It’s slow going,” she admitted. “There are so many angles to work—the man camps at the Bakken oil fields, the big sporting events, the suburban homes that are actually underground sex clubs…”
Wyland sat upright in the ladder-backed chair.
“Oh, cool your jets,” she told him. “I’m backing off the Stephen/Annika angle—as you requested—but I’ve discovered that the house where Stephen killed his first victim is one of dozens of underground sex clubs based out of single-family homes in Twin Cities suburban neighborhoods,” she said. “To me, this indicates organization, and a profit motive. Who owns the properties? Who’s running the show? I’m following the money—or trying to, anyway.”
“And what will you do once you find out?” Fear made his voice snap like a whip. “You agreed you’d drop the story.”
“I did no such thing. I agreed to refine the subject. Which I do not have to clear through you.”
Thane stilled. Valerian simply forked up a small bite of cheesecake.
The woman was going to drive him straight to Bedlam.
“Stephen’s first victim was described as being found ‘trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.’ I’m trying to find out if Commander Lupinsky worked the shibari angle—you know, the Japanese bondage art where a person is tied and suspended in a highly intricate arrangement of ropes? But he won’t return my call,” she said. “Skilled rope fetish practitioners are really quite rare, at least here in the Midwest.”
Thane was gawping like a fish out of water.
Wyland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, as if her words hadn’t shocked him, too. Maybe one small vampire would throw Thane for a loop.
“Did Stephen’s victim know what he was getting into when he went to the sex club?” she continued. “Or was he simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong dom?” Raising her cup, Tia took another sip of her coffee. “I’m interviewing some people in the local BDSM, kink, and fetish communities to see how people consensually connect with others who share their interests.” She shrugged one rounded shoulder. “It might be a dead end, but…”
But it might not be. If Lupinsky hadn’t investigated the shibari angle, doing so now might give them a fresh avenue of investigation on a case grown too damn cold.
She was good, damn it.
“You might talk to Nick,” Valerian suggested from the end of the table.
Her face lit. “Great idea. He’d know.”
“He’d know what?” Lukas had fully vetted the man, but… “Tia.” He held her gaze, pitching his voice low and languid. It would echo in her head, throb in her thoughts. “What connection does Nick Solberg have to your story?”
Her eyes went vague.
“Wyland, what are you doing?”
He ignored the censure in Valerian’s voice. He had to get to the bottom of this. “Tia, what connection does Nick have with your story?”
“He’s a dom,” she slurred.
Nick, a dom? A sexual dominant? How could Tia possibly know such a thing? “For hire?”
“Of course not.” Even in thrall, Tia’s response was scathing.
Her answer was a relief, but there was another matter to resolve, once and for all. Pushing guilt aside, he threw every lick of his strength into his next words. “You need to drop this story.”
“I need to drop this story?” Tia parroted.
“Yes.”
“Wyland!” Valerian snapped. “Enough.”
His head whipped to Val. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
Tia jerked in her chair, blinking rapidly. “Sorry.” She lifted a hand to her temple. “I kind of zoned out there for a minute.”
“Are you okay?” Valerian asked.
“I have a killer headache,” she replied with a wince. “I think I’d better go lie down for a bit.”
Good. He had to call Gideon, STAT.
Rising, she cleared her throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, for inviting me to be a guest in your home.”
“We’re pleased to have you,” Thane said.
She rubbed her temple again. “Thane, thank you for the delicious meal. I think I’m going to go upstairs now.”
“Our home is yours,” Valerian said with a gentle smile. “Be at ease.”
“Thank you.” After kissing Val on both cheeks, she gave him a single, stingy look before leaving the room.
Both men stared at him. Thane’s appalled expression spoke volumes, and Valerian looked as disappointed as he could remember.
Disappointed in him.
“Was that really necessary?” Valerian nearly whispered.
When Wyland rose from his seat, he felt creaky and infirm, as if he’d aged centuries in the last few minutes. “Yes. It was.” And with as much dignity as he could manage, he left the men who’d raised him without another word of explanation.
Dominic jolted awake, pricking his ears and lifting his snout to the breeze as he edged even further back into the tall ditch grass. The garage door was opening with a soft mechanical hum.
Finally, something was happening.
He couldn’t believe he’d dozed off just down the road from Vamp Central.
Shifted.
Shit.
If humans saw him, they’d think someone’s dog had made a break for it, but the few who knew better would recognize him for what he was: Werewolf.
Pushing slowly to his haunches, ignoring the stink of fear from a nearby rabbit, he watched as the door slowly rose. Two sets of feet. Two pairs of legs. A man and a woman—Wyland and Tia Quinn—together.
After leaving the snakes in her bedroom yesterday, he’d expected…well, in hindsight, he didn’t know what he’d expected. To rattle her? Yes. To show her that her security was a fucking joke? Yeah. But if he thought she’d run out the door, squealing like a terrified little girl?
No, that hadn’t happened.
What had happened was that Wyland, the freaking Vampire Second, had squealed wheels into her driveway not fifteen minutes after she’d discovered the snakes, with Lukas Sebastiani, Jack Kirkland, and Chico Perez arriving soon after. Kirkland, the human, didn’t worry him that much, but Lukas Sebastiani damn well did, and Perez’s werewolf nose was a serious threat. So he’d backed away from Tia’s house, but not so far away that he couldn’t see when everyone left. He’d followed Tia and Wyland to Vamp Central, where she’d pulled her car right into the garage under the watchful eye of a beefy security guard.
Three Council members—Sebastiani, Kirkland, and Wyland—at Quinn’s beck and call. He could only imagine the services she provided in exchange for such dedicated attention.
The garage door was open now. He watched Wyland open the passenger door of his black Porsche, then guide Tia into the seat with a hand on the small of her back. His mother had once called Wyland a gentleman’s gentleman— “Such beautiful, courtly manners” —but there was nothing courtly about the Second’s fair-weather ride. The Targa had some serious horsepower under the
hood.
Imagine being able to spend over a hundred grand on a car you couldn’t even drive in the snow.
Wyland strode to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and started the car. Its soft purr rose to a growl as he backed out of the garage.
He had to follow.
Dom pushed to his feet and ran to where he’d parked the Pathfinder. A nervous squirrel dove into the underbrush as he passed, and an owl hooted nearby. Fireflies flickered in the distance. The air, damp as a sponge, smelled like fresh deer droppings, rotted leaves, and a hint of exhaust from Wyland’s car.
There were no humans nearby.
He dropped to his haunches behind the Pathfinder. Taking a deep breath, he felt the pull of the new moon, hiding in the night sky. Felt the support of the ground beneath his belly. Then…his brain went on walkabout. Scents faded into the background as his snout receded. Fangs became teeth, claws became nails, and fur became flesh. Skin and bone shifted and popped as his body mass rearranged itself in a timeless rush.
Several seconds later, when he came to his senses, he was breathing hard and lying bare-ass naked in the itchy grass. Pushing to his feet, he reached into the open hatch for his jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops, then quickly dressed.
The Targa’s tail lights disappeared over the small rise to the south.
He followed with his headlights off, hanging well back. Reaching for the cup of gas station coffee sitting in the recessed holder, he sipped the cold, bitter brew. Next week, his dad’s doctors wanted him to try to shift. “If I can’t, you know what to do,” his father had said.
Dominic rubbed his bleary eyes. Hadn’t his dad ever seen CSI? How the fuck was he supposed to do his duty when the hospital had security up the wazoo? Even after his father moved home—gawd, his mother had already ordered a bed with a Stryker frame, and planned to put it in the formal dining room—how could he hasten his father’s journey to the Pale without being charged with patricide? It wasn’t as if he could just issue a Google search on how to kill someone and make it look like an accident.
Well, he could, but that would be really stupid.
How did the werewolves who followed The Old Ways get away with it? Or did they? Maybe going to prison was part of the deal.
He needed more information.
Brake lights glowed up ahead as Wyland pulled into the parking lot of a ratty-looking storage facility less than a half mile away from Vamp Central. What the hell…? Had Tia stored some of her belongings there when she moved? One of the big double doors was opening, creating a bright envelope of light as it rose. The Porsche idled in the gravel lot, waiting for the door to reach its apex. Once it did, Wyland pulled in.
They disappeared as the door closed behind them.
What the…
Dominic pulled off the road again, took another gulp of the cold coffee, and settled in to watch.
And wait.
An hour before dawn, Tia walked into Valerian’s sitting room, rubbing her temples.
Valerian looked up from this week’s People magazine. “Oh, hello, dear. I thought you were at the Archives with Wyland.”
“I was, but then there was an emergency at the hospital.” And it was probably just as well, because no matter how interesting she’d found the old books and manuscripts he’d asked her to read, her headache had dug in like a pickax. She’d downed two bags of blood at the Archives, but the throbbing was still vicious. “I told him I could walk back, but he insisted on dropping me off.”
“As he should,” Valerian said mildly, removing and folding his wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“It’s just a short walk—”
“Down an unlit rural road in the middle of the night. Tia, you’re a smart, capable woman. Why take unnecessary risks?”
Okay, that took the wind out of her sails.
Valerian smiled angelically.
Wily old vampire. As she bent down to kiss his cheek, pain lanced her temple. “Do you have any Tylenol?”
He waved to the bathroom. “Medicine cabinet. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Opening the medicine cabinet, she grabbed the familiar red and white bottle, and shook out two capsules. After a pause, she added a third. What was the deal with the headaches? Maybe she was allergic to something in the house—mold, or a cleanser or something. Or maybe the stress was finally getting to her.
She had to find a way to shake it off, because she’d been utterly worthless working with Wyland tonight. They’d started out working side-by-side at the computers, with her searching the Archive, and him doing…whatever he’d been doing. She’d lost too much time staring at his elegant hands as he quietly typed, at the ferocious furrow of concentration that had wrinkled his brow. He’d taken quite a few phone calls while they’d been there—from the hospital, from legal clients, from Council members—and he’d given each call his undivided attention. No multi-tasking for Wyland, which made a lot of sense given lives could be at stake with each and every conversation.
Having been the recipient of a single, scorching kiss, she was dead certain he’d lavish the same focus, and exquisite attention to detail, upon his lovers.
She’d thought about the kiss too damn much.
“Tia? Are you finding what you need?”
“Yes,” she called back, snapping the cover back on the pill bottle and returning it to the medicine cabinet. She tossed the pills into her mouth and swallowed them dry.
When she went back to the sitting room, Valerian was flipping through the box of movies she’d left. “A half-dozen versions of Dracula. Nosferatu. Blackula, Dragula, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, True Blood… Isn’t it amazing the degree to which vampires have saturated human culture?”
She nodded. “It’s an interest of mine. I’m pretty sure I have nearly every vampire film and TV series ever made—the good, the bad, and ugly.”
Valerian picked up a luridly-colored DVD. “Spermula. How very interesting.”
Interesting that vampire porn existed, or that she owned it? “Give me that,” she muttered, snatching it out of his hand.
Out of the Vampire First’s gnarled, arthritic hand. She closed her eyes, mortified. “I’m so sorry, Sir. Are you okay?”
“Certainly. And drop the sir, if you please.”
“You make it way too easy to forget you’re the most powerful vampire on the planet.”
A smile lit his face. “What a beautiful compliment.”
She set the movie back in the box. “Well, my mother would be ashamed of me.” My mother. “Damn, I haven’t told my parents where I am. I haven’t told them anything.”
“Is there anything they can do?” he asked with a shrug. “Maybe it’s best they don’t know.”
Valerian was probably right. The fewer people who knew she was staying with Valerian and Wyland, the better. “I’ll tell them to call my cell if they need to contact me.”
“I think that’s best for now. How’s the headache?”
“Getting better, thanks.” She eyed Valerian. His color was good, and his eyes snapped with energy. Maybe she could get some research done tonight, after all. “You said earlier that I could interview you for the Archives. Are you up for it right now?”
“Certainly.”
She pulled a digital recorder out of her pocket and set it on the end table. “And maybe afterward, we could watch a movie.” Rooting through the box, she grabbed Love at First Bite. Hopefully, Frank Langella’s dark, smoldering sensuality would push Wyland’s pale and broody version out of her mind for a while.
Valerian picked up the digital recorder, turning it over and examining it with careful hands. “Alka used a similar device when she recorded our dinner parties.” He went on to describe the conversations he and Alka Schlessinger, the Valkyrie First, had enjoyed over a series of intimate dinners. “They think I’m going to die soon.”
The matter-of-fact words snatched the breath from her lungs. “Who does?”
“Alka. Elliott. Wyland.”
And Wyland was his doctor. “What do you think?”
He smiled cheerfully. “We’re all dying. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the finish line.”
She considered. “Can’t disagree with that. How about some wine?”
“That would be lovely. Thane brought a lovely French merlot up from the catacombs yesterday.”
She poured them each a glass of wine, noticing from the label that the vintage was older than her mother. Her first, testing sip positively melted on her tongue. “I’m going to get so spoiled while I’m here,” she said, sitting in the closest chair. “I don’t know much about wine beyond red, rosé, and white, but this tastes fantastic.” After taking another sip, she set the glass down on the priceless antique table. “Shit,” she muttered, quickly lifting the glass. “Do you have coasters?”
Valerian set his glass down on the ancient, polished wood. “Use it for its intended purpose, my dear. Treating it like it’s fragile does it no honor.”
Message received, loud and clear.
She spent the next hour interviewing him as vigorously as she would anyone else, asking questions about his recent past, figuring she’d work back to his memories of Sigurd eventually. Valerian had other ideas. No matter what question she asked, or how specifically the question was phrased, he found a way to turn the topic to Wyland: His legal and medical work, past and present. His role as a political adviser. His cultural contributions. “He doesn’t relax enough,” he said with a sigh. “Work, work, work. Speaking of which, do you know if Elliott got ahold of him tonight? He called here right after you left.”
Imagine being familiar enough with the Council president to call him by his first name. “I don’t know. He took a lot of phone calls while we were there.”
“Wyland’s been researching how we might transition Council leadership from species-based representation to something a little more democratic.”
She stared. Another scoop for the ages, another story she couldn’t publish. “You probably shouldn’t be telling me this.”
He gestured to the recorder. “This interview is for the Archives, right? There’s no need for secrecy.”