by Tes Hilaire
“Did you see what was happening in that hall? Every single one of those men was getting ready to take a shot at doing what I did.”
“So it should be you?”
“I know her. She knows me. Besides, I didn’t do it to force a pairing. I did it to protect her.”
“Some protection.”
Logan stilled. The painful truth of that statement was enough to reopen the floodgates of guilt. He shouldn’t have brought her. At the very least he should have better explained what would likely happen once her powers were revealed. The way things had gone down, it had been all but a virtual ambush.
But Karissa had seemed so absolutely sure about her need to leave Roland’s apartment. Practically terrified, really. He’d been swayed by her wide-eyed pleas and the trembling hands clutching his arm.
Logan frowned. It didn’t fit. Nothing about this fit. Which brought up the question, what the hell had happened between her and Roland?
She’s not a merker. Don’t tell me she’s a merker.
“Why,” his voice came out hoarse, so he cleared his throat and tried again, “why didn’t the marking ceremony work? Did I do something wrong?”
His father sighed, settling down in the cotton draped chair behind the desk. He fidgeted, leaning forward, then back, crossing then uncrossing his arms. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You can gift energy, yes, if she is accepting and has the room to take it in, but you cannot use your energy to injure or mark one of your own blood. The Father will not allow such an abomination.”
Ice chilled Logan’s veins. “What do you mean of my own blood?”
His father sighed, raking his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, son. I should have told you before now. I just never thought…No, I hoped…”
“Hoped what?” Logan stepped around the desk, demanding his father’s full attention.
His father dropped his hands, lifting his gaze to that of his son. “I’d hoped she would remain hidden, safe, for years yet to come.”
“You knew of her?”
“Of course. She’s my daughter.”
Chapter 10
Karissa’s head had been split open. No other explanation. She sat up, clutching at her throbbing temples as if by doing so she could somehow hold her brain inside. She hadn’t had a headache this bad since…since, well, never. And given that she was prone to migraines after using her gift, that was saying a lot.
“Oh, God, kill me now,” she moaned as another spike of agony pierced her skull, then immediately bit her tongue. She’d been taught not to waste her prayers on those things that were not important, or self-serving, or in this case fallacious. The headache would fade. She just had to survive until then. A better thing to pray for would be a way out of this mess.
First step: Sit up.
Careful of her movements, she planted her palms on the musty sheets and pushed. Her head throbbed so bad she swore that gray matter was about to ooze out of her ears. Yet somehow she made it to upright.
Good. Now to figure out where the heck I am.
Karissa carefully pried her eyes open and met a vision of hazy brown-red. If she hadn’t experienced this sort of thing before, she would have panicked. Migraines had a tendency to affect her vision. So she waited, until finally the red started to recede and the brown morphed into shapes and outlines.
Wow. Talk about archaic. The furniture was massive, heavy, and decorated with intricate carvings and gold gilding. The floors were stone and had three separate area rugs that she supposed were meant to take away the chill. The walls were a deep mahogany paneling covered by saintly paintings and faded tapestries. And over there…holy crap, was that a washbasin?
Monks. These men lived liked Middle Age monks.
Not quite, Karissa. Monks don’t go barbaric over a scrawny woman like you.
Her hands flew to her throat. Tender, but not warm or swollen. Not like you’d expect after being practically strangled.
No, not strangled. Branded. Roland had warned her, and he’d been right. There was no doubt in her mind now that every man here wanted to “claim her.” And it looked like Logan had decided to stake his territory from the get-go.
Heck no. Not even if the world was coming to an end.
Blood pumping, she flung back the covers and thrust her legs off the edge of the bed. A knife twisted in the back of her skull, sending shooting pains down her spine and out into her extremities.
Okay then. A little slower.
More conscious of her limitations, she eased to the edge of the mattress until her feet sunk into the plush area rug below. Step two: Get to the door.
Using every available piece of furniture she could reach for support, she whimper-walked across the room. The last few steps were more of a stumble as she plunged across the gap from dresser to door, but then her hand closed around the knob and she sagged into the welcoming warmth of solid wood. Victory.
Maybe.
With eyes closed and a prayer on her lips she twisted the handle. Unlocked. Was this for real? Were her newest set of captors such idiots that they were going to let her waltz right out of here?
Her excitement fizzled the moment she pushed the door open. Pitch dark. Figures. It was not her captors who were stupid, but the person who dared to go bumbling around in the dark.
Karissa squared her shoulders, facing down the oppressive darkness. Stupid or not, she was going to get out of here.
***
Gabriella’s heels clicked on the crumbling sidewalk, a measured beat to the sway of her hips. As disguises went, this one worked as well as any. Maybe better, given the genes she’d inherited from Mommy Dearest. May she rot in hell.
It was because of that witch that Gabriella was here at all, strutting in her five-inch stilettos down these dark streets that positively reeked of drugs and despair. Okay, maybe placing tonight’s exact activities on her list of it’s-all-Mommy’s-fault indiscretions was a tad much, but Gabriella didn’t really see it that way. Gabriella wasn’t like some girls who believed every painful milestone or unfairness of life was her parents’ fault, but she did believe in placing blame where it belonged. And the fact that Gabriella was out here, on Christos’s orders, was her mother’s fault. The greedy, power-hungry whore had been willing to trade anything—including her daughter’s immortal soul—for a chance to rise in the ranks. Didn’t matter what ranks, as long as there was power and prestige at the top.
The sharp sting against the base of her throat. A scream lodged beneath her budding breasts. Arms pinned. Hot tears. An elegant hand brushes them away, a murmur offering false reassurances. “Mommy, no! Don’t let him do this, Mommy!”
Gabriella’s body jerked. She stumbled a few steps before she managed to catch balance both physically and mentally. It was over. Done with. In the past.
She looked down at her shaking hand, clenched it into a ball, and forced herself to start walking again. At least neither Mommy Dearest nor Christos had gotten what they wanted from the deal. Mommy had enjoyed a brief span of increased prestige, but that had been fleeting, ending in her death. And Christos? Christos liked the power he got from controlling a half-blood like her, sure, but that’s not why he’d turned her.
It was no secret that the one who found a way to eradicate the Paladin would be raised to right-hand man status. Christos had probably figured that even with a siren mother, the daughter of one those do-gooder Paladin would be precious enough to use as bait. Idiot hadn’t calculated things right, though. Nope, he’d been naïve to think her mother’s genes could be so easily overlooked and then he’d royally screwed it all up when he’d turned her. The Paladin were a snobby sort, only concerned with “light” vs. “dark” and pureness of soul. Well, there was nothing pure about Gabriella, nothing “light” either. She was bad through and through. Bad enough to dream of blood and death. Bad enough to crave the hot, thick liquid until her stomach twisted and her fangs etched grooves in her own gums. Bad enough to want to drive a stake in Stepdaddy’s chest, lop of
f his head, lap up the gushing life-fluid, and then burn his body to ash to make sure he could never come back.
Oh, yeah. That would be the bomb.
<
“Argh!” God damn, Christos! With a growl Gabriella pushed away the presence that had slipped in under her defenses. It soon became a test of wills: her determination to kick her maker out verses his indomitable need to prove that she couldn’t.
She stumbled to a stop. Beads of sweat broke out over her skin, making her clammy cold in the pre-dawn air. Christos tried to slick around her wall of determination, but she countered, filling her mind with imagery of a bright golden sun, filling all the dark spaces where Christos could hide to spy on her. It burned her, scorched her right to her core, but not as much as it burned him. He would relent first. He had to.
Her body began to vibrate with the need to prove that she could do this. Just when she thought she’d managed to illuminate every shadowy recess within her, a dark curtain of evil slammed down upon her, smothering her image of light.
Gabriella cried out, her knees buckling. She was going to die. He was going to snuff out her essence.
With a laugh, Christos suddenly disappeared, the oppressive weight of his will lifting and leaving her adrift. She stood there, gasping with her eyes closed, back pressed against a lamppost, and fingers curled into the chipped iron paint in an attempt to tether herself to her surroundings.
Damn. She panted. She should have known Christos would be checking up on her routinely. Should have been prepared. Or at least kept her homicidal thoughts tucked away for a time when she knew he’d be preoccupied with something else. Like after he had found the woman they were searching for. Everyone—Christos, Ganelon, even Lucifer himself—was hankering after the girl who got away. Well, they could look all they wanted. Gabriella had a feeling about where the woman was, and she wasn’t telling.
And if you’re smart, you won’t even think about that, Gabby.
Yeah, good idea. Though it was hard not to when she’d been sent out to prowl the streets for signs of the girl. She wasn’t stupid enough to disobey Christos. Christos was on a bender. Screw up and you better hope your will was in order.
That suited Gabriella just fine. She was sick of this life anyway. Still, there were worse things than death. And if she didn’t want to become intimately aware of them—she pushed off the lamppost, heading back down the street—she should probably get back to work.
Chapter 11
It was the whispering that stopped her—the hushed sound of two angry men who were both trying to gain the upper hand while not raising their voices. Karissa had managed to make it down what seemed a never-ending staircase and had been following the wall around, searching for another set of stairs going down—or a door, a big wide this-is-the-way-out door—when she was scared shitless by the sound of others…close by.
Go, Karissa, ignore them. For God’s sake, don’t stand here like a fear-paralyzed mouse.
Only she wasn’t the mouse. She was the cat. And undone by her curiosity—had she really heard them say her name?—she found herself trying to peer down the black hall before her. It, like the rest of the building, refused to give up any secrets. Previously, she relied on the vague memory of the outside of the building. Which was not much. She’d been blindfolded for secrecy’s sake, and when Logan finally announced they were there, she pulled off the blindfold to find they drove deep into the warehouse section of the city and were idling beside a chain-link fence behind which stood a graveyard of shipping boxes. He punched in a code, drove through…and whamo, gone were the boxes. In their place a cobbled yard filled with fountains and statues appeared, each monument highlighted by spotlights in the dark.
She was so engrossed by what had to have been some sort of protective illusion that she hadn’t zeroed in on the massive structure behind them until Logan had stopped the car. By then they were so close to the building that her gaze had immediately been drawn to the gargantuan center structure. With its multiple peaked roofs, turrets, and carved marble, she was positively awestruck. Vaguely, in a shadowy, knew-it-was-there kind of way, she recalled that there were long wings stretching out to each side, rising perhaps to half the height of the tallest peak. Baring the top floor, she could be anywhere in one of those two wings.
Skimming her hand along the wall, she made her way down the dark hall. This hall was riddled with crevasses, recesses where cool, marble statues resided, other doors that led to God knew where, and…what was that?
Fighting the urge to whoop in celebration at her first sight of light in who knew how long—okay, maybe it had only been a couple minutes—she forced her forward progress to miniscule. Finally, she made it to the door bathed in a slim halo of light and squatted down to stare through the glowing beacon of the keyhole.
As soon as she got a good look at the occupants of the room, she sucked in a breath. Logan, and a man who resembled him too much to be anyone but a blood relative, were facing off behind the expanse of an old oak desk. Neither looked happy, their eyes boring into each other as they both refused to back down from whatever argument they’d been participating in.
I should go. Now. She started to straighten but stopped when the other man dropped his gaze, his eyes seeming to hone in on the keyhole. Oh damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Was she found out?
The man sighed, looking back to Logan. “Your only job is to keep her safe in that room until it’s decided. That is all I’m asking.”
Logan’s hands fisted at his sides, the only tell that he seemed ready to go for the other man’s throat. “I won’t let you do it. I promised my protection.”
“I am sorry, Logan. But it’s a bond mate’s right to protect her. Not yours.” The man laid his hand on Logan’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze as if to temper the words. The action was that of a father to son, though this man looked nowhere near old enough to be anything more than a brother, or perhaps a young uncle. It made her wonder. Logan had never mentioned anyone else but his dad, at least not within the ranks of Paladin.
“She has no bond mate.” The way Logan said this sounded almost bitter. “You said a minute ago that you sensed no possible bonds between her and any who were present in that room.”
“That is why we have to choose for her. They won’t wait for her to choose. They’re going to choose one for her unless we pick one first.”
“An elder could claim the right to protect her.”
The man tapped the desk beside him, his brow creased into a sharp V that aged him considerably. “Times are desperate. I’m not sure even a father could protect her.”
“Coward.”
The man jerked away, his head snapping back as if Logan had physically slapped him.
Logan went on. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about her. If I knew who she was I wouldn’t have—”
“Wouldn’t have what? Cozied up to her like a dog sniffing out a bitch in heat?”
Karissa stiffened, heat suffusing her cheeks. Had he just called her a slut? Of all the nerve, he didn’t know anything about her!
“That was beneath even you, Father.” Logan’s tone was low, deadly.
“But true nonetheless,” Logan’s father—his freaking father!—snapped back, his fists slamming down on the desk. “Damn. How is it that she’s in heat?”
In heat? What were they talking about?
Logan started to shake his head, then hesitated, drawing his father’s sharp gaze. Logan shook his head again, more adamantly this time. “I don’t know.”
His father sighed. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. Though it does make it more vital that we choose an acceptable partner as quickly as possible.”
“You cannot force a bond.”
“No.” The man lifted his gaze, looking back to his son. “But one can force a pairing.”
Oh God, Roland was right. No one here could be trusted. Not even the man her grandfather had said she could trust.
“Who, Papa?” the little girl in her memory asked. “Who would take me away?”
Papa’s brown eyes became shadowed and he shook his head. “Any of them, all of them. Something happens to me, you go to Logan Calhoun.”
“He’ll protect me?”
“God, I hope so, child. I hope so.”
Her vision blurred, and that woozy she’d-spun-on-the-merry-go-round-too-much feeling spiraled down through her body. She fell forward, her hand slapping against hard wood.
“What was that?”
The barrier holding her up disappeared. Karissa did an elegant hand plant onto the floor. Light spilled from the room, shadowed only by the tall figure standing before her. Karissa raised her head and rapidly blinked away the memory of Papa’s rounded face and tickly, white beard. In his place were the hard planes of Logan’s aristocratic face as he stared down at her.
“Karissa?” His face twisted into a look mixed with confusion and horror.
“I trusted you,” she managed past the tightening in her throat.
If he said anything in his own defense she didn’t know; she was already scuttling backward into the hall’s offering of darkness.
***
Roland lifted his tumbler, swirling the amber liquid so it ran up and around the sides of the cut crystal. He wasn’t sure whether it was his forth or fifth. Didn’t matter. The point was to keep drinking. Maybe if he consumed the alcohol fast enough he could drink himself into oblivion.
Karissa was right. Somewhere in his gene pool was the propensity to become an alcoholic. Now, if only his vampire physiology would take a backseat to his real heritage.
He took another sip of the room-temperature scotch, frowning down at the amber liquid. Too clear. And though it was filled with layers, it was still too…contrived.
Blood. Thick, warm, bursting with flavor. Nothing less would do.
***
“Karissa!” Her name echoed through the maze of halls, farther away this time. Faint, barely a pin drop in the oppressive blackness she had escaped into.