Stake and Dust (Stake and Dust series, Book I)

by Karen Michelle Nutt

  This took her aback. "You were involved with her?" Somehow that made it even worse.

  "I hadn't seen Lorelei in a long time."

  "Specify, long time. Weeks? Months? How long?"

  "Not since the 1920s, not at Eternal Bliss, but another pub much like it. When she kept killing off my clientele, I called the GOJ on her. Way back when, the organization use to try and rehabilitate before they resorted to offing a fellow preternatural. Obviously, their efforts failed with Lorelei, and she never forgave me for my hand in her capture."

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Had the Lamia been setting Tremayne up to take the fall? Was this the truth or another lie to cover his butt? Then she remembered the painting in the pub. "The portrait hanging on the wall at Eternal Bliss, that was her, wasn't it?"

  He nodded. Had Tremayne and Lorelei been lovers? Perhaps. Heck, most likely. He had a painting of her hanging on his wall. Not in a human form, but in her preternatural state. "You kept the painting," she murmured.

  "Stop. I know what you're thinking," Tremayne said.

  "You have no idea," she spat.

  Tremayne pursed his lips, but then said: "I never loved Lorelei. The portrait is just that, a painting I admired because it's good. The artist had been talented. One of Lorelei's victims, if you must know, and I thought it a shame to destroy the one piece of evidence of what he could have achieved. He'd been talented before Lorelei got her claws into him, but he never had a chance. She made him famous for a brief time then fed off him until he withered away. Died of consumption, the records state, but we both know otherwise."

  Maybe Tremayne could talk his way out of why he had the portrait. In a way, it was kind of sweet if she wanted to believe his story, but there were other things that didn't ring true. "Why did you pretend to be Mr. Green?"

  He ran a hand through his hair. "Stupidity. Curiosity. A chance to find out who wanted to leave dead bodies on my porch… Your voice… Pick one."

  "What? My voice?"

  "I did mention stupidity as the number one reason. I heard your voice and I wanted to meet you."

  "That doesn't even make sense."

  "I never said it did." His gaze shifted to her weapon for a millisecond before he met her eyes again. "Why don't you put the weapon down and we'll talk. I'll answer all your questions." He took a step toward her.

  "I warned you," she said and she pulled the trigger.

  "Bloody–," Tremayne's cursed as he dove out of the way and not a millisecond too soon.

  Cassandra didn't waste time. She made her escape out the door, sprinting for the forest. She needed to think, needed to work all this out in her mind, and she didn't need to see his handsome lying face while she did.

  * * * * *

  Tremayne stood and stared at the arrow imbedded in his wall before he strode over to the open door in time to see Cassandra disappearing into the woods. He should let her go. He really should…

  "Oh hell…" He never did listen to reason. He went after her.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  "Dammit, Cassandra." Tremayne yanked the arrow from his shoulder with a series of curses, both in Gaelic and in English. The wound would heal in a matter of minutes, but it still hurt like hell.

  "Stay away from me!" Her voice was a shrill demand.

  "Stay away – You're the one traipsing through the forest – adjacent to my house, I might add – and with the medieval contraption you call a weapon. You could have shot Shakespeare."

  With the mention of his name, his mutt tilted his head and whined in agreement.

  "Shakespeare is with you?" Cassandra's voice held a note of concern.

  She may hate him at this moment, and was ready to stake him, but she loved his dog. The big guy was seventy-pounds of happy, especially when someone scratched him behind his floppy ears. His mutt may be impressive and looked like he'd make a perfect watchdog; however, Shakespeare would sooner lick a thief than bite him... or her.

  This was why he found her in his study. She didn't have a key, which meant she broke into his place. She probably promised Shakespeare treats as she went through his things, looking for incriminating evidence to prove he was truly a vampire. All she had to do was chance a peek at his wine cellar where he stored his blood and wine vintages. He might still have a few bottles of A-negative blood – the synthetic kind – in his refrigerator, too. He'd stocked up after the first time he'd taken the Lugh number three just in case he needed a quick fix.

  "I'm rescuing a Chihuahua next time from the pound," he grumbled. "I heard those dogs are vicious on the ankles."

  Shakespeare snorted with a huff.

  "Yeah, well, keep that in mind the next time you let someone rummage through my things," Tremayne said.

  "I have nothing against, Shakespeare, blood drinker," Cassandra shouted. She had moved to the right of him. She wore night gear so she could see in the dark as well as he could.

  The forest backed up to his property, leaving him secluded from prying eyes. It wasn't like he had anything to hide, but being a vampire and keeping late hours tended to draw attention. He liked his privacy. "Now that just hurts," he threw back. "It's to name calling then, is it?"

  "It's what you are," she tossed back.

  "I drink blood to survive. It is not who I am." He moved quickly to the next tree, intending to circle around to her.

  "You should have told me." The raw hurt in her voice made him cringe. "Omitting the information is as good as lying."

  She was right, but there was not an easy way of saying ...Oh, by the way, I'm a vampire... especially when face-to-face with a hunter.

  He'd known the moment she sauntered into the Eternal Bliss that she was a hunter, without his heads-up from her former partner's cell phone.

  "Did you expect me to introduce myself as Tremayne Graystone, vampire extraordinaire?"

  "Let's not get carried away. I'm a blood drinker would have sufficed."

  He rolled his eyes. He could see she hadn't lost her wicked sense of humor. "Now you're being ridiculous. I didn't see you handing me your vampire hunter business card."

  She snorted, but he could see her lips twitch before she bristled with irritation. "You already knew I was a hunter."

  He moved a few steps closer, making sure to keep a tree trunk between them as a shield. Shakespeare kept pace. When need be, his mutt could be as stealthy as a preternatural being. "Tell me truthfully, Cassandra, did you come into the pub specifically to hunt me? Did you suspect I was a vamp from the start?"

  Her slight hesitation spoke volumes. "The bureau knew there was a vampire involved, but nothing more. I didn't know it was you I was sent to –"

  "…kill," he finished for her. "Because, dear hunter, that is what you were sent to do."

  "Dammit. You weren't supposed to be so charming, but then it's all about the glamour, isn't it?"

  He had a hunch she wanted him to admit he glamoured her into liking him, but too bad for her. "You know I didn't influence you."

  She lowered her weapon a fraction and he took it as a good sign.

  "Why don't we go back to the house and talk about this like two normal adults?"

  "Normal?" her voice rose another octave.

  Wrong word choice, but wasn't normal relative?

  "Normal?" she repeated in a shrill tone banshees would be proud to accomplish. "There's nothing normal about you."

  "Says the ninja dressed woman holding a medieval bow and arrow, but I'm willing to forget all this if you are?" He was about to move again, but he heard her sniffle. Was she crying? He regarded her quizzically, his eyes narrowing. What the heck?

  "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," she choked.

  He knew what day it was, but what did this have to do with her wanting to stake him? He leaned against the tree trunk and waited for her to explain.

  "I expected chocolates … flowers … maybe dinner with my boyfriend. I did not expect to find out that not only does he believe Christmas is a frivolous pastime," she continued
without taking a breath, "but he's the blood sucker I was supposed to hunt, and he's been under my nose the whole time."

  "Your family has nothing to fear from me. I've been minding my own business for centuries before such a job as preternatural hunters existed. I work, pay my taxes, and I don't go around killing innocent people."

  Shrrrthunk!

  He glanced above his head where the arrow lodged into the tree trunk. When had she moved? "That was damn close, Cassandra. Now cut it out."

  "You've been alive for centuries," she accused. "Just how many women have you seduced down the line?"

  It sounded like she was jealous, but that was ridiculous. Wasn't it? "I don't go around seducing women."

  "You're blooded. Don't deny it. You have the warrior physique. You aren't a hybrid. So, who was the woman you married to complete the ritual?"

  The Oiche Sith went through a change around their twentieth year, which involved draining of blood and taking a mate. Drinking from the female triggered their transformation. The males would grow larger and stronger, but since their race no longer produced young, they chose human females. In the beginning, most didn't survive the blooding ritual. Apparently she was familiar with the outcome too. "You want to know about the woman, who I took as my mate?"

  "To death do us part ... well, death to her anyway, isn't that right? Yeah, I want to know what happened to her."

  He didn't have to tell her. It was obvious she already knew the answer.

  He'd been young and arrogant when his body demanded he choose a mate. Changing a human had been a new concept back then, and he foolishly believed he knew how the process worked. He didn't wait for instructions. No, he performed the ritual, draining the woman of her blood and having her sip his as if his blood proved a cure-all – even for death. He found out death came in many forms. The woman who trusted him had paid the price. She became a fiend, losing all her humanity with his final bite.

  "Well?" Cassandra snapped.

  "I took a mate as was expected of me."

  She let out a harsh laugh. "In all the centuries you've lived, you expect me to believe you only had one marriage."

  He let out a tired sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Shakespeare plopped down at his feet, obviously expecting this explanation to be drawn out. "I only took a mate once. Since then I have kept to myself."

  "Until now? With me?"

  "Aye, until you." What could he say? The first night she sauntered into his pub, she wore jeans, a button down blouse, and cowboy boots. He was a sucker for boots and she wore the sexy boots with a purpose. Now he knew the purpose was to stomp on his face after she staked him, but at the time thoughts of who she was and what she did, after she left her nine to five job, hadn't entered his mind. Even when he spotted the pendent she wore as confirmation she belonged to a hunter's world, he still had been drawn to her. Only then, it had nothing to do with her beauty. There was so much more to her. Strong, determined, and she knew how to laugh. Her whole persona drew him in as if she possessed the capability of glamour.

  Cassandra was quiet, but he could hear her breathing, her heart thumping and he knew her mind whirled with questions. "What happened to her – this wife of yours?" she finally asked.

  He sighed with resignation. "In the end, I had to kill her."

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Of all the responses Tremayne could have given her, Cassandra hadn't expected the blatant truth, but there was also something in the way he told her. His voice hitched, sadness poured over the words as if the act of killing his wife hadn't been what he wanted to do. She peeked toward where she knew Tremayne stood, leaning against the tree trunk. He was tall and fit with muscles of a warrior who wielded a sword on a daily basis. He said he was alive before her family went into the preternatural business of hunting. Her family had been doing this a long time. Just how old was he? Centuries old and like all preternatural beings that were virtually immortal, he didn't look much older than twenty-eight.

  Her night goggles gave everything a greenish hue, but enabled her to see as clearly as any preternatural in the cover of darkness. She shouldn't care why he killed his wife. He murdered another human being. He deserved to be put down like a rabid animal that would endanger anything in its path. He did not deserve her sympathy. "Why did you kill her?" She closed her eyes and cursed herself for asking. Damn these rollercoaster emotions where Tremayne is concerned.

  "She no longer knew right from wrong," Tremayne told her. "She thought of blood only and nothing more. She would have sooner tore my throat out than anything else. She ceased to be her."

  "But you were the one to change her. You turned her into the fiend."

  Another sigh left him. "Aye, I changed her. And I knew I would never chance changing another again."

  "And you've never killed since then? Ever?"

  The long pause told her the answer. Centuries old … vampire … he needed blood to survive … Killer.

  "Depends on if killing includes defending one's self. I fought in wars. I've had to defend my home from invaders. I've been hunted by fanatics…" He let the sentence trail off with an accusatory flair.

  Then it dawned on her. If she proved a threat, he'd end her life, too. Survival was his motto, no matter the consequences. Well, she had the same motto.

  Cassandra glanced at the tree nearest her. She swung the bow over her shoulder and jumped, taking hold of the tree limb and hoisting herself up. She sat perched like an owl waiting for its prey. She knew Tremayne stalked her too, moving closer and using the trees for cover. Perched up here, she'd have the advantage. She wouldn't give him a chance to taste her blood.

  Even as she thought those words, she wondered why he hadn't tried to drink from her. They'd been together for weeks. And all wonderful, she cursed under her breath. He charmed her with his wit and brilliant conversations. He enchanted her with strolls on the moonlit beach and tantalized her with his drugging kisses. And damn him, his plan of seduction worked. She'd fallen for him, given her heart as surely as if she'd gift-wrapped it with a bow. She loved him. She still loved him. A gasp escaped her lips before she could clap a hand over her mouth. Noooo… she couldn't love a vampire. She hunted them.

  "Are you all right?" Tremayne called to her, his voice held a note of worry.

  Her gaze riveted in his direction. He'd moved closer without her realizing it. "Why wouldn't I be?" she snapped.

  "Your heart sped up like … like you're frightened."

  She groaned inwardly. She'd forgotten for the moment that his hearing would pick up such things as a heartbeat. "Don't worry, vampire. I'm not frightened of you." Which was a perfectly good lie, but not in the sense he would think. She was scared of what she would do, or rather what she wouldn't do, when she saw Tremayne's face and his lovely haunting blue eyes.

  Would she be able to do it? Could she kill the man she'd fallen for? Man … but he was more than a man, a sworn enemy who had purposely lied to her. She closed her eyes. No, he hadn't lied – exactly. She'd always been drawn to men who could handle themselves in a fight. She blamed it on her upbringing. She was trained to be a hunter. It made sense she would want a man who could stand at her side if trouble arose. She believed Tremayne could be that man.

  "Cassandra?" Tremayne's voice drew her back to the present and the cold truth of where his tantalizing caresses had led her.

  "I need to know," she said.

  "Know what?"

  "Was it all a lie?"

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Tremayne stepped away from his hiding place and glanced to where she sat, perched like an avenging angel. Along with the pain, distrust darkened Cassandra's expression. It was unmistakable, even with the night goggles attached to her head. He was in tune with the nuances of her body language – the way it tensed when she was nervous, or how her limbs relaxed when he kissed the tender area at her collarbone. She rubbed her hand over her face as if she doubted all they shared, as if she believed he had a devious plan from the start.
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  "Why did you let me into your life?" Her voice hardened just a notch. "Why did you toy with my feelings? Is it your perverse way to set up your victims?"

  Now she was just plain pissed. But she was right. Why indeed had he allowed her into his life, when he could have easily pushed her away?

  Bram had tried to warn him.

  "Have you lost your senses? She's a Hayes," Bram stated the fact over a glass of Merlot tinged with synthetic blood. Bram and his lovely wife, Adryanna had come to visit him. Adryanna didn't seem as troubled over his involvement with a hunter. Not in the sense she believed he was nutty. She only worried his heart would be broken. This had surprised him. When he decided to court Cassandra Hayes, he never considered she'd break his heart. Stake it, aye. Break it, no.

  Maybe he had lost his wits. He most assuredly had lost his heart as Adryanna had predicted. Perhaps that was why he couldn't think straight when Cassandra stood beside him.

  They spent time together, hours upon hours of getting to know each other. Sometimes late at night, they'd stroll along the beach, walking hand in hand, while Shakespeare raced on ahead of them. The dog loved to frolic in the surf and bark at the waves.

  The breeze would lift Cassandra's hair gently at the nape of her neck. She had a lovely neck, and not because he wanted to sink his teeth into her flesh. It was long and as graceful as the rest of her. Along with the scent of the sea, her alluring aroma of wild honeysuckle would wash over him in waves, teasing him before ebbing away again. He knew after awhile she didn't suspect him to be a vampire. He knew because no stake protruded from his chest and his head remained upon his shoulders. He had Sheerin's concoction to thank for the reprieve. He used it sparingly since the side effects were undesirable, but still worth the risk.

  "Don't you celebrate Christmas?" she'd asked him on their last walk together and she mentioned Christmas again tonight. Somehow he knew this was nearly as important to her as in wanting him to be a hunter and not a vampire.

  He was born in a time where pagan rituals were all the rage, but then some aspects of Christmas were remnants of those long ago beliefs. He learned through the years it was best not to sway too far from the truth. It made remembering the story much easier. Humans loved history. They wanted to know where you came from so they could better judge what the future might hold.