“How do I…do this?”
“If you’re expecting fangs—don’t. You won’t be able to feed unless it’s from a blood bag or if I help you. At least for the next week or so until your fangs come in. How long it takes is different for everyone, but once they do they will descend instinctively when you’re about to feed. Just latch on and suck.”
Slowly, I lowered my lips and opened my mouth around the wound and began to suck. As the warmth of Arie’s blood touched my tongue I bit down harder on his arm. I sucked greedily, not expecting the pleasure coursing through my veins.
I felt like a snowy owl flying through the darkened sky with the city lights illuminating the night like endless fireflies. I felt like I could break bricks with my bare hands. I’m invincible. The blood raced through my body, sending shocks through every nerve. It left my nerves tingling until my whole body felt like ropes of fire.
“Enough,” Arie said.
He yanked his arm away to release it from my savage clench—the clench of a new vampire hungry to feed.
“Luna will be here soon.”
“Luna? Why is Luna coming here?” Then I remembered Katarina snapping Victoria’s neck. “Where is Victoria? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.”
I lifted my hand to my head. The sounds outside were disconcerting but had died down since I’d fed from Arie. Looking down at my clothes I saw that Arie must have changed me out of the black dress I’d worn to the gala. A sharp knock on the door to the loft drew my attention. Arie went to the door and opened it. Luna walked in with the comet tail trailing behind her. Her hair shimmered silver and her eye lashes sparkled in the rosy sunlight filtering through the glass window.
“Thank you for coming, Luna,” Arie said.
“Why is she here?” I looked from Arie to Luna and back again for some sort of explanation.
“There is a reason my father brokered me in a deal to pay off his debts,” Luna said. “Moon faeries are very rare and can be very valuable to your kind.”
“Holly, you don’t have to stay this way if you don’t want to,” Arie said as he looked away. “There is only one way to heal you.”
“How is that even possible?” I asked.
“That I couldn’t really tell you, but my father told me years ago that he thinks it has something to do with your disorder making you vulnerable to sunlight. My powers are connected to the moon. It’s the only way to heal vampirism. There are only so many of us. Not enough to heal all vampires.”
There is no cure. None that we’ve found, except for a supernatural bloodline that’s very rare. It’s neither vampire nor human blood, and it can reverse vampirism. I remembered our dinner at WaterScapes. That must have been what Arie meant by a rare bloodline.
“Luna, you didn’t tell Holly the cost her cure comes with.” Arie crossed his arms.
Arie couldn’t look at me and I didn’t like how his voice had turned soft, quiet even, as he spoke to Luna.
“If I cure you it will deplete over half my magic, but in exchange my servitude to your Court will be complete. I will be free to go,” Luna said.
Arie inclined his head. “You still didn’t tell her what that means. Your magic is linked to your life span. Moon faeries are very rare, and without them we would have no moon.”
“So if I allow you to heal me then it will shorten your life. When you’re free what will you do?” I asked.
“I will return to my father.”
I didn’t want to think about the implications of shortening her lifespan or what would happen if moon faeries became extinct and we had no moon. But I knew that the moon stabilized the Earth’s rotation and that days would be shorter and our climate would be harsh. Exhaustion wore on me and pain hammered in my head, making it difficult to think. I didn’t like that she would return to the one person who had traded her like property to settle a score that should have been his responsibility. I didn’t like that saving me would cost her life.
And didn’t I want to be with Arie?
The reality of being a vampire hit home, but I didn’t know how I felt about any of it. Part of me felt overwhelmed and frightened by all the new sensations, while another part of me felt strong, vital, and invincible. Arie and I could be together. Forever.
“Arie…?”
“The choice is yours. I can’t make it for you.”
“I need more time.”
Luna sighed. “Well, you know where to find me.” She turned on her heel and left.
My head was spinning and I reclined on the sofa to try to make it stop. I closed my eyes. It was all too much. Arie came over and sat beside me, brushing a stray hair away from my face.
-Holly, I’m not sure where to begin. There’s so much that I’ve wanted to tell you. I have waited for a long while. When I look at you I see truth, love, and happiness—everything I’ve wanted in life. I thought it was all a dream, but it led me to you.-
I smiled at the surge of telepathy and opened my eyes.
“I know.” I held his hand to my face.
“You don’t have to decide now. You can take all the time you need.”
I knew everything would be all right in the end. Katarina was dead, but I couldn’t do anything other than close my eyes. Even after three days of sleep I could barely keep my eyes open. I felt Arie kiss my closed eyelids. Just for now I would relish this moment and decide the rest of my life later. After all, I had plenty of time to figure it out.
THE END
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Turn the page to read The Bequest by Christina Thacher or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS.
The Bequest by Christina Thacher
Sara leads a double life: CFO by day, sexual submissive at night. When her Master dies suddenly, Sara discovers his will leaves her to his nephew, as though she’s a valuable piece of furniture. She’s ready to move into a hotel when she gets her first sight of the new owner, gorgeous six-foot-five Cal. Sara has a sudden desire to kneel at his feet. Only problem, he’s not a Dom.
Cal, a gifted but impoverished composer, barely knew his uncle. So it’s a shock to inherit Bruno’s fortune ... and his sexual submissive. Under the terms of the will, they’ll have to live as roommates before Cal can deed the house to her. Smart, lovely and graceful, Sara drives Cal crazy with desire. Only problem, he’s not a Dom.
Cal is used to directing an orchestra to create the performance he wants, but he has to visit The Club to understand why his uncle left him The Bequest.
Turn the page for The Bequest by Christina Thacher or return to the TABLE OF CONTENTS.
CHAPTER 1
Sara might obey a master at home, but at the office she expected people to give her what she needed.
She had no trouble conveying this to the investment analyst on the phone. “I need those numbers on my desk. Not in your laptop, not in a snazzy-looking report, not in an express mail envelope you swear is en route.”
As she listened to some lame excuses, Sara spotted her assistant hovering near the door. Sara grinned at Becky but kept her voice steady. She didn’t want to let these idiots off the hook. “Fax them to me. Don’t make them pretty, just make sure I can read them.”
She hung up and turned to Becky. “What is it?”
“Mackenzie Lyon called. He said it was important.”
Sara froze. The Lawyer? She barely knew him. She saw him at The Club, sure, but never to talk to—subs didn’t talk to Doms, for one thing, and especially not to Mac Lyon. He’d negotiated her agreement with Bruno… Oh, God.
Her Master.
“Call him back.” She must have looked stricken because Becky froze, her anxiety plain to read in her face. Sara sighed. She held her hand out. “Please. It may be urgent.”
Becky left and Sara turned to stare out the window. A gorgeous D.C. spring—sunny, with picture-postcard clouds against a perfect blu
e sky. A few miles away, tourists would be jostling to take photos of the cherry blossoms. And Sara was waiting for a call that would probably ruin her life.
The speaker buzzed. “Mac Lyon on two.”
Deep breath. She picked up the phone and connected to the second line. “Sir.”
“Sara.” His deep voice, quiet but intensely powerful, made her ear vibrate. “I’m so sorry to bring you this news. Bruno has had a heart attack. He died in the ambulance on the way to the emergency room.”
“No—” Master? He wasn’t old. Just fifty-six. “He went to the doctor last month. A stress test said he’s in great shape.”
“As his attorney, the hospital will tell me what happened. I just don’t have the details yet.” There was a pause, then that deep, slow voice. “Sara, I’m so sorry about all this, but I’m the executor of his will. I need to meet you at the house. I’ll have more information then.”
Sara’s head felt like a steel band was squeezing it too tight for her to think, too tight to focus on anything. Master was dead? “I have a Pension Committee meeting tomorrow.” That’s why she needed those numbers from the investment advisers. She couldn’t leave the office. Master couldn’t be dead…
“Sara. You’ll need to tell Yvonne you’re taking some time off.”
Her brain lurched forward. Yvonne DeAngelos, Sara’s boss. Yvonne was extremely busy managing one of the largest charitable foundations on the East Coast. Losing her CFO—even briefly—was unthinkable. “I can’t. We have a fundraiser next month, a Finance Committee meeting next week, and the executive staff meeting this afternoon.”
Mac didn’t speak. When the gap grew heavy and dense, Sara knew Bruno Donatella had actually died. Because that pause—the icy silence that told a sub her behavior was unacceptable—froze her blood.
Another look out the window at the perfect spring day. “Yes, Sir. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” she said.
***
Calder Raynes was struggling with a tricky passage in the slow movement of his concerto when the phone rang. Could be his landlord, asking where the check was. Tempting to let it go to voice mail. Then Cal remembered it could be his agent with news of Cal’s latest grant application.
“Yes?” He kept looking at his computer, trying to see just how to make the strings do what he wanted.
“Calder Jacob Raynes?”
Not his landlord or his agent. The guy didn’t sound like a collection agency, either. Someone from the foundation, perhaps—? Hope closed Cal’s throat for a moment. Then he said, “This is he,” trying not to sound like a slacker composer who needed to get a real job.
“My name is Mackenzie Lyon. I’m an attorney hired by your uncle, Bruno Donatella.”
“Uncle Bruno? What does he want? I barely know him.”
“I’m sorry to break the news this way, over the phone. Your uncle died last week. You’re a beneficiary under his will. I’ll need to meet with you to discuss the bequest.”
“Wow. Uncle Bruno and I met maybe three times in the past ten years.” Cal was picturing a large guy with grizzled hair and a low, sly chuckle. “I’m amazed he was aware I existed.”
The lawyer’s voice smiled. “He called you C.J. He followed your career with interest.”
“What there is of it,” Cal said.
“Yes, well, it was Bruno’s intention that his bequest make a difference in your life, and your music.”
“Wow.” Even a few thousand dollars would pay the rent and keep the lights on. Guess Bruno really was a nice guy, even in death. “How did he die?”
“Heart attack.”
Shit. “But he couldn’t have been very old. He was Mom’s younger brother and she would have been…” Cal did the math. “She would have turned fifty-nine this year.”
“He was fifty-six.” The lawyer sighed. He sounded tired, like this was only one of the difficult phone calls he needed to make. “Mr. Raynes, I have a lot of things to discuss with you. When can you come to Washington?”
Never. “Uh, Mr. Lyon, I don’t have a car.” And plane fare wasn’t in his budget.
“The estate will pay all your travel expenses. When can you leave?”
Hell. If “never” wasn’t an option, then the only other answer was… “Whenever suits you,” Cal said. As long as Cal had power for his computer, Yamaha keyboard and headphones, he could compose anywhere.
“Wonderful. I’ll have my assistant make the arrangements and contact you with the details.”
With that, the mysterious Mr. Lyon said goodbye.
A few thousand dollars as a bequest from his uncle, plus a trip to the nation’s capital? Good thing Cal had answered the phone.
Two days later, Cal took the train to D.C., traveling in style on an Acela. He grabbed a cab and gave the driver the street address for Lyon and Associates. The cab stopped in front of an elegant townhouse with a discreet brass plaque. Not a huge corporate law firm, then. Lyon and Associates had to be a boutique law firm rich enough to afford such a ritzy address.
He’d looked Mackenzie Lyon up on the Internet. One of the youngest graduates of Yale Law School, after which he’d gotten a prestigious clerkship on the Supreme Court. Lyon had argued a landmark voting rights case before the Court at the unprecedented age of twenty-nine. Still quite young—mid-thirties?—Lyon was considered one of the premier appellate lawyers in the country.
Cal climbed the shallow steps to the glossy black door—the building looked more like an embassy than law offices—and pushed the tiny doorbell beneath the polished brass plaque. Why was someone like Mackenzie Lyon acting as Uncle Bruno’s executor? Cal wasn’t entirely stupid about the legal world, having dated an associate at a top Wall Street firm some years back. Lyon was an appellate litigation specialist, not your average trusts and estates lawyer handling someone’s will as a favor.
Could it have something to do with the mysteries surrounding Uncle Bruno? Mom hadn’t talked about her younger brother when Cal was growing up. Something about his lifestyle, which Cal took to mean Uncle Bruno was gay. Which was weird because Mom had gay and lesbian friends. Plus, when Mom died, Uncle Bruno had come to the funeral with a dark-haired woman. A very quiet woman. One of his dad’s cousins had whispered to Cal, “I can’t believe he brought her here,” but hadn’t explained who the woman was or why having her there was a problem. Cal hadn’t bothered to ask, especially after he’d had a short talk with Uncle Bruno and really liked him.
When Cal was buzzed in, he presented himself to the receptionist sitting behind a fancy desk that looked like it cost a lot more than his annual rent.
“Of course, Mr. Raynes. Mr. Lyon is expecting you.”
She ushered Cal into a private office, offered him coffee or tea, then left him sitting in an antique chair. He hoped it would take his weight.
A door to his right opened and a trim man entered. Cal rose to meet him.
“Mac Lyon.” He was a few inches shorter than Cal, dark-haired and with piercing blue eyes. The sort of eyes that missed nothing.
“Cal Raynes.” They shook hands and Cal sat down again.
Mac Lyon didn’t retreat to the chair behind his desk. Instead, he sat opposite Cal in the other chair.
“My sympathies on your loss.”
Cal shrugged. “Hard to miss a man I barely knew. Although I remember thinking how smart and funny he was when I saw him at my mother’s funeral.”
The man nodded, then looked away. The mood shifted—time for business. “Your uncle,” he began, “named you the principal legatee in his will.”
“Okay.” No reason to get excited. Lawyers always made things sound fancier than they were. “Principal legatee” didn’t necessarily mean more money, just fewer people to split it with.
The lawyer narrowed his eyes. “I’m not sure how much you know about your uncle.”
“Virtually nothing. He and my mother disagreed about his lifestyle—which I took as code language for Bruno being gay—and so I had very little contact with h
im.”
The other man paused. He seemed saddened to hear this, although Cal didn’t see why.
“Then I should explain a few things.” Lyon crossed his legs and folded his hands neatly on his knee. “Bruno was a complicated man. He was an inventor, a loner, an entrepreneur, and—well, I’ll get to that later. A few of his inventions were successful, earning him money in licensing fees. One in particular made him quite a lot of money. Apart from the house here in Georgetown, there’s a vineyard in Napa Valley, a ranch in Colorado, and an island in the Caribbean. The real estate alone is worth, conservatively, ten million dollars.”
Holy shit. Cal wished he’d asked what “principal legatee” meant.
“In addition, there’s a substantial portfolio of investments, which generates an annual income over two million. And, of course, the continued revenue from the inventions, although that will diminish over time as the patents expire.”
“Of course.” Right. Like Cal had any clue what any of this meant.
Lyon looked at him. Assessing him in some way. Cal just looked back. Not a staring contest, precisely. More like a test—a test Cal suspected he was passing.
The moment ended and the lawyer continued with his dry-as-dust explanation.
“There are other legatees, but those bequests are relatively small. I believe the largest is fifty thousand dollars.”
Relatively small? What exactly was this guy getting at?
Cal’s throat closed. In music, he’d know exactly what was coming next—a key change, a crescendo, a change in tempo. The cue to the listener that said, “This is about to get really weird.”
Once again, they stared at each other. Finally, the lawyer said, “You inherit the rest.”
“Wait—the rest of what?”
“It was Bruno’s wish that you step into his life. His houses, his cars, his wealth, everything.”
“Oh.” It was impossible to comprehend what an uncle he barely knew had wanted. Plus, the music hadn’t shifted yet. Cal braced himself.
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