“Dead, reborn or alive, she will be useful to me when my coup is complete. She will assist you in adjusting to my authority.”
Gathering his own impressive power and cursing himself for allowing his guard to slip, Aleksei sent out a call. It was a plea for assistance, a calling in of an old favor, and it was answered from thousands of miles away in Egypt.
“Come to me, my friend and ally, for answers and aid. Bring her. We will sort this out together.”
Aleksei’s entire being vibrated with the force of the mind behind that response. The tentative link Dracula had established vaporized as if it had never been, the mental door locked and barricaded by a mind and intellect of the highest order of his kind.
Osiris was the oldest of the Vampire Lords, the most knowledgeable, most powerful of them all. One-on-one, face-to-face, he could obliterate Dracula with a single thought, command him to destroy himself, make him his slave. Osiris, however, was honorable and benevolent. A civilized ruler, he had kept his own sect peaceable and as secret as possible.
When Dionysus sprang forth centuries later in Greece, powerful and wild, yet another honorable being, the two of them had formed a tenuous alliance. The two Lines rarely interacted. Osiris’s bloodline being more focused on magic and mysticism, while those of Dionysus’s lineage were watchers of the physical earth. There was, however, mutual respect.
Dionysus proved himself time and again to Osiris as a scrupulous if chaotic leader, his inherent wildness contrasting sharply with Osiris’s orderly thoughts and manner of governing.
Dracula was a tyrant in any world. Mortals and immortals alike feared him. He ruled through fear and blood, slicing through whoever stood in his way or crossed his path. A sociopath in any society, twisted beyond comprehension, his goal was not title or even acknowledgment. He enjoyed power.
The giving of quarter or the taking of life was incidental. It didn’t matter how he got there, power was what he coveted and power would be what he would obtain. The Vampire world and then the Human one would feel the tightening of his mailed fist. And soon.
Centuries before, his megalomania had made him reach out for power and control. Young and impetuous, he had unleashed his inner beast, trying to obtain alliances with Osiris and Dionysus in hopes of enslaving Humanity into a world of endless night. A world ruled by the superior race of the Vampire. Reading his twisted vision, the two opposing rulers had forced his compliance, sending their own legions to deal with the upstart.
Calculating and clever, Dracula had avoided assassination, but just barely. Osiris issued a command: go to ground and learn the error of his ways, or the Egyptian Lord would deal with him personally. Preferring banishment to true death, Dracula had gone to ground, but outside Romania, in the frozen north. Decades, then centuries, passed. He rose briefly from time to time, formulating a plan, drawing others desirous of power or as bigoted in their beliefs as he was, to his cause though his charismatic personality.
The army he quietly formed was impressive. A direct blood link kept those in his inner circle close to his powerful but cruel mind. He sent them out to the four corners of the world and in between. With the exception of Greece, Romania and Egypt, not an area was spared the infestation. Being of his Line tied him to their collective crimes, but he stayed out of the limelight, preferring subterfuge to direct attack until he was ready.
Dracula finally judged that he had amassed enough allies. The revolution of the Goth culture worldwide, the fascination with Vampires, the seductive lure of the power of the blood brought converts to him in droves. Minor Vampire Masters who believed in his vision were assimilated, Humans possessing the right amount of cruelty, beauty and desire were turned and brought into the fold.
He didn’t stop there. Other Paramortals joined him. Werebeasts, Ghouls, Ghosts, even some of both the darker and light Fey, combined their loyalty. They didn’t necessarily like Dracula as much as they hated Humans. Most of them had been treated poorly by Humanity and its biased laws and most were eager for a change of status quo.
Now was the time. Dracula could feel it. The time for a shift of power was near. The army of darkness was moving like a cancer over the world. Minor pockets of resistance like Rachlav’s Romania, Osiris’s Egypt and Dionysus’s Greece would soon fall. The coup was about to begin.
Still tingling from Osiris’s brief touch on his mind, Aleksei created his resting place, opening the ground away from his castle and gave himself over to the healing earth. It was too close to dawn to secure himself within the family tomb. He needed the embrace of the earth itself this sunrise. When he rose that evening, he would need only a brief amount of time to prepare for his journey to his sworn liege.
Tanis also felt the touch of the phenomenal power of the Egyptian God, through his brother’s link to him. Resting with Gillian in his arms, merely enjoying her nearness and warmth, he was jolted by the tingle that ran through Aleksei’s mind.
Osiris. He would be their only safety in this war. Dionysus was an ally but a wild card. Tanis knew where they would be going. He’d spent decades in Egypt and knew Osiris and his people well. If anywhere on Earth could be considered safe, it was within the Egyptian Lord’s domain.
Years after their rebirth and after learning, painfully at times, the intricacies and subterfuge of Vampiric politics, the brothers had learned of the other bloodlines. Finding Dionysus incommunicative and unresponsive to their requests, they’d turned to the great Egyptian deity. Osiris did not consider himself a supernatural being to Vampire or Human worshippers, but the early Egyptians, marveling at his ability to rise from the dead, cure illness, grant some prayers—abilities that exceeded anything their primitive minds could comprehend—had made him into a god. Osiris, Lord of the afterlife.
He took it all with humility and grace. A pantheon of his closest and most trusted comrades and advisers was set. They accepted the Human worship and gifts, giving comfort to those who sought them with honest motives and never interfering in Human advancement or evolution.
Dawn was cresting and Tanis needed to seek shelter. Kissing Gillian’s head tenderly, he withdrew from her even as his body clenched in painful need. Shimmering into mist, he left the home and sought shelter not far from Aleksei. Plans needed to be made and quickly. The next night would be soon enough.
The next afternoon, Gillian woke alone. Tanis was gone, of course, and she felt curiously bereft. She placed a call to the IPPA with the latest news and developments. They reiterated that extreme circumstances call for extreme measures and that she had carte blanche to do what she needed to do to stay alive and to pull her client through, since he was apparently a main stumbling block in Dracula’s plan. There was at least one other Paramortal psychologist and special operative caught in the midst of this as well, but he was in the States and hopefully safe from Dracula’s reach.
One other festive piece of information the IPPA shared with her was that Count Aleksei Rachlav was sort of the unofficial major domo over the Vampires in Romania and that she needed to play nicely with her new client in hopes of garnering more respectability and clientele from Rachlav’s potential referrals. More clients, more informational possibilities.
Gillian sweetly informed them that her cover was blown and that she really could move on rather than staying there in the middle of nowhere. They suggested, just as sweetly, that her opportunities for knowledge not found on the current highways of information would imply that she stay there, continue to learn what she could and report back.
Swearing profusely about being all but ordered to be cooperative, but feeling a little better after the phone call, Gillian prepared to visit Dante. She needed to keep her mind busy, and dealing with Dante’s issues would be a good focus for her at this point.
Driving over in the bright light of day erased a lot of the cold fear she’d felt the night before. Gill had never been prone to anxiety of any kind. She was calm, cold and calculating on the battlefield. Her firm resolve and hypersensitive empathy had saved her
troops many times over. With her ability to divide her mind and emotions so sharply, she rarely was sucked into the void of emotion that a good many natural empaths found to be their logistical downfall.
She was a genuine, decorated, blooded hero, and she hated with a passion that a random Vampire threat could rattle her so badly. Mentally shaking herself, she was determined to get on top of this. Aleksei and Tanis did not need to “piccola-sit” her. If she let herself wallow in their protection, she was sure to get them or herself killed, and not pleasantly.
Although, Aleksei’s voice filtered through her memory of their conversation at the inn: “There are a good many things worse than death, Dr. Key. You must believe me.” She shuddered at the thought of what he might have meant.
As soon as she entered Boganskaya Castle, she could feel Dante’s presence. They were attuned to each other. Good. Sort of. Gillian had no wish to encourage the flirtatious Ghost, but they needed the tenuous link with each other. She hoped he’d not make her job harder by trying to insinuate himself in her life. Ghosts did that sometimes, particularly with gifted empaths like herself. Hungry for feeling and purpose, Ghosts latched on to places, people or things, hoping to fill the cavernous hole in their spirit that their absence of life had left.
Going in unguarded was foolish. She took a moment in the great hall to prepare herself, closing down barriers and erecting safeguards to prevent him from following her out of his earthly prison. It took only moments, as the practice of years took over. Waving to Arkady as she mounted the stairs, she made her way to Dante’s hallway. The chair and table she’d used were exactly as she left them, the owners apparently deciding to leave well enough alone after her apparent success of the first encounter.
Dante materialized almost as soon as she stepped into the hall. “Greetings, dolcezza.” His voice was deep and musical, completely unlike the empty, echoing vibration he used to terrorize people with. Gillian realized he was lonely and happy to see her. Courteously, she offered her hand, steeling herself against the warmth-stealing cold of his touch.
“Dolcezza?” she asked, raising a brow.
Bending over her hand, Dante allowed his lips to linger on her knuckles, gazing up at her with longing in his crystal turquoise eyes and smiling what he hoped was a seductive smile. She brought back warmth and light to his barren existence. The counseling discussions were tedious, but if it meant her visiting, he would endure it.
“Si, it means ‘sweetness’,” he murmured softly.
Extracting her hand from his lingering hold, Gillian smiled and seated herself. “And how fare you today, Signor Montefiore?”
He tsk tsk’d her. “Dante, please, Dr. Key. And may I address you as Gillian?” The smile was breathtaking. Gillian nearly rolled her eyes at him and his light scolding.
“You may…Dante. Now, let’s get busy. Tell me about the feelings of helplessness you experienced during your murder.” Her voice wasn’t quite as clipped as she meant it to be, but it got her point across. She was here for business.
Dante sighed. She was not going to be easy to seduce, but he couldn’t deny that she had his best interests at heart, so he collected his thoughts and began to share. During the session, Gillian explained to him about why he was experiencing flashbacks of his murder, why his personality was so mercurial: charming one moment, then switching to hostile and distrustful. Ghosts didn’t dream per se but their thoughts did drift and often he found himself replaying the moment, over and over again.
Post-traumatic stress disorder was not a familiar term to him, but as she gently explained how the trauma of his murder could have affected him, Dante began to understand his own pathology. He stared in amazement at the little blonde seated before him. Raised in a time period where women were looked upon as a means to an end, Dante had never really taken a female seriously. Until now.
Watching his eyes and face change, feeling the difference in his spirit, Gillian felt the rush of satisfaction she always got when a client made a breakthrough of understanding. Dante wasn’t “cured” by any means. But now he had a tool, a key. Knowledge was a powerful thing. Understanding why he had harbored feelings of betrayal, knowing what held him forcefully on this plane, was the beginning of wisdom for him. Dante could not regain his life, but he could choose to either transition or to stay, albeit more peacefully, when he came to terms with his fear and hatred.
Abruptly, Dante fell to one knee before her, taking her hand in a grasp that was far less icy than before. Shocked, Gillian’s eyes widened as he spoke. “Caressima, I do not know how to thank you for making this clear to me.” Lips that were smooth, silky and warm, kissed the back of her hand and Gill jerked away.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Forgive me, cara. I know no other way to thank a lady.” Dante’s frosty turquoise eyes raked over her, full of glowing blue fire. His sensual mouth curved in a magical smile. Shivering suddenly, but not from cold, Gillian rose, putting the chair between them, instantly wary, and backed away. Ghosts weren’t supposed to have warm lips; they also weren’t supposed to project sex either. Sex was the Vampire’s realm; Ghosts were about scaring the shit out of you. Okay, he was doing that too. Point for Dante. Gads.
“Stop it, Dante.”
“Stop what, dolcezza?” That smile alone, on Dante’s generous mouth, was lethal. Gillian felt the projection of desire from him, as it tightened her body, dampened her palms…and other areas, sped up her pulse. Her breathing sounded ragged, even to her own ears, and she knew he heard.
Dante watched her eyes dilate with desire and his own transubstantiated form responded, heaviness growing between his legs. Death had not affected his ability to read a woman. Seconds passed. He made no move and she backed up no further. There were many things the lady did not know about the dead, it seemed. Seeing that she was on the verge of bolting, he acquiesced, rising and dipping his head to her respectfully.
“Forgive me, Gillian.” Dante was at his most charming, pushing calm and security toward her gently. “It has been so long since I have truly spoken to an intelligent, lovely woman; I forgot myself.”
Swallowing heavily, the molten desire that she’d felt evaporating like dew, Gillian regained her composure. Dante wasn’t threatening her. She felt comfortable with him. It must have been a misunderstanding. He couldn’t help looking like that. Hell, he was an attractive man…was…he was a dead man. A Ghost. A Ghost with a very prominent erection.
What?! she thought, real fear starting to creep into her mind. There shouldn’t be any attraction or any erection. He was dead. Ghosts didn’t have blood, blood pressure or arteries with which to fill a penis. He wasn’t real, he shouldn’t have a penis, or lips or hands, or those damned turquoise eyes, either.
Metaphysical theories and postulations filled her mind, trying to remember all that she’d learned about what Ghosts could and couldn’t do. None of this made sense. Dante simply shouldn’t be able to do any of this. Frowning, she regarded him.
Dante watched back, his expression growing more quizzical. “Are you all right, Gillian?” He strengthened the glamour on her, watching her relax a little. Control, he had to remember his own control.
“Fine. What the hell just happened?” Careful, she thought. Getting angry with a Ghost was an exercise in futility. Dante, like most Ghosts, wouldn’t give a shit if he made her angry; anger was just another emotion to feed on. He was also her client and she needed to get a grip. She fought to control her fluctuating emotions.
Feeling her anger charged him more. He hadn’t felt this level of desire in ages. It enflamed his senses, warmed him to the core. She was bringing life back to him, energizing his empty existence; he couldn’t afford to tip his hand too soon. Dante wanted her. All of her. Living or dead didn’t matter to him but he made up his mind in that moment that she would be his. Now was not the time. He had eternity on Earth if he wished. He could afford to show decorum and wait.
“Unforgivable of me, Dr. Key.” Using her
formal title would take her mind off the fact that he’d just tried to seduce her, he hoped. “I was merely so enthralled by the simple explanation that you have given me…so happy to know that I do not have to exist in hate and remorse, that I quite forgot myself.”
Bowing low, he swept his arm across his chest in a courtly gesture. “It was my nature in life to express my happiness, my joy, in a more physical manner. I apologize if I have overstepped.”
“Don’t do it again.” Gillian said flatly. “This is a professional relationship, Dante. I know you’re lonely. I know you’re attracted to my level of empathy, but the reality is that you are my patient, first and only.”
“Again, I apologize. It was unforgivable of me.” Dante’s silken voice warmed her and she felt a deep understanding of his predicament flow through her.
“Accepted. Now I must go.” Gathering her things, she tried not to look at him for the moment. “I do hope you will think on the issues we discussed. I will return tomorrow and we can determine if you’ve had any further revelations.”
Straightening, she spared him a glance and found his hand outstretched. There was a pregnant pause as she looked at his hand, then back to him, then down at his hand again. Mentally kicking herself for being silly, Gillian took his hand, steeling herself against the chill of the grave that his touch afforded. Dante made no provision for his grip not to be cold. He wanted her off guard and unsure of her senses after his near mistake. It wouldn’t do for her to think him anything but a trapped spirit. At least not right now. Releasing her hand first, Dante touched his fingers to his lips and backed into his hallway, shimmering out of existence again. There was nothing he left behind. No sense of his presence, his warmth, nothing. Just like the Ghost was supposed to be.
A little uneasy, Gillian made her way back downstairs, to her car. It was still an hour or two before sunset and she knew she needed to return to the estate. Looking briefly for Arkady but not finding him, she left via the heavy front door. Grateful to be in the bright sunshine again, Gillian took stock. Dante either was one of the most powerful Ghosts she’d ever encountered, or most of the knowledge that had been accumulated and written on them was woefully incomplete.
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