by Alyssa Day
She caught his face between her hands. “You’re going to love it, too,” she said fiercely.
He centered his cock and plunged into her, and was rewarded by her tiny cry. “Oh, yeah.”
She stopped him. “Condom?”
“Fiona, I swear to you on my oath as a warrior that we are safe.”
She looked deeply into his eyes for a long moment, an eternity of a moment, and he had all but resigned himself to calling up an icy cold shower when she nodded.
“Yes. I believe you.”
“Thank you,” he said fervently, but then he didn’t talk for a while, because he was too busy kissing her. He kissed her while he drove his cock into her warm, wet center; plunging deeper and deeper into her, answering every lift of her hips with another thrust. He couldn’t get enough of her—he wanted her over and over, in every way possible.
He wanted her for always. The thought made him thrust deeper.
Her sheath tightened around him and she dug her fingers into his shoulders. “I’m—oh, I’m coming, Christophe. Please, harder. Faster.”
“Anything for a lady,” he said, his breath coming in harsh, rapid pants. He grabbed her hips and lifted her up and off the table, so her full weight was supported in his arms, and thrust harder, deeper, and faster, until she tightened around him and started bucking in his arms. He captured her cry with his mouth and thrust again, releasing his own seed, spurting long and hard into her welcoming heat.
When they both finally quit coming, he rested her back on the table and carefully, regretfully, withdrew. They were both breathing too hard to talk, so he removed from his pocket the handkerchief Hopkins had so thoughtfully provided and offered it to her.
“Thanks. I think I saw some napkins over there,” she whispered, her cheeks blushing again. She was such a fascinating contradiction of wanton and innocent, his woman.
His woman. He was beginning to like the sound of that.
Maybe he was bewitched—but if so, it was the normal enchantment between a man and a woman. One he’d thought he would never experience. Far more than mere sex.
He filed the thought away to consider later. They cleaned up and he kissed her again. A long, slow, gentle kiss.
She took a deep breath. “Are you ready to go pub hopping?”
“I can’t talk you out of this?”
“No. We’re partners, remember?”
He took her hand. “You can never, ever leave my side. And if I tell you to run, you do it. Understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Okay, let’s do this. And, Fiona?”
“Yes?”
“This is my new favorite museum.”
She blushed all the way to the car.
Chapter 19
The slightly pointed tips of Gideon’s ears had been practically on fire by the time he’d stepped outside the museum. Whoever—or whatever—that upstart Christophe was, Gideon would enjoy every second of the torture he planned for the man. How dare he touch Fiona? She was to be Gideon’s. She would belong to him and only him. For a very long time. Eternity, perhaps, if he deigned to share the elixir with her before tiring of her. For her to be in the arms of another man made Gideon want to crush the entire museum into rubble, with the aristocracy still inside it. It would certainly be no loss to the world.
Not a good idea, though, considering his current plans. Still, Gideon wanted to lash out at someone to take the edge off his rage, but Maeve, the little coward, had run off to her car without a word, and now he was fuming in the backseat of his own car, like the impotent English lord he was supposed to be.
Enough. His meeting with Telios wasn’t scheduled for hours, but since when did Fae lords need to adhere to schedules?
“Stop the car,” he ordered his driver. “I’ll get out here.”
The driver, at least, knew better than to argue. He pulled the car to an immediate stop, and Gideon stepped out. He would make better time via his own method of travel, and he knew exactly where he was going. The St. Mary’s tube station, on Whitechapel Road.
One simple bend in light and space later, Gideon stood inside the permanently closed station of London’s Underground, looking around in disgust. A few burning torches lit the darkness to a dim glow. Most vampires were not known for attention to cleanliness, and Telios was no exception. At least there were no drained bodies lying about, although the stench attested to their recent presence. The rank odor of decaying flesh was practically suffocating in the claustrophobic space.
“What’s the matter, Fae? A little too dark for you?” Telios’s voice grated, as always, but this time it held a little more of an annoying quality. A bit of smugness, perhaps.
Gideon would enjoy crushing that.
“Do you know the history of this place?” Telios gestured at the rubble piled against the bricked-up platform. “Opened in 1884. Perfect timing for me, since there was always a fine hiding place in that storage room just off the platform. Ate a few workers, I did. But the station closed down in the late 1930s. They used it again as a war shelter against air raids for a bit during World War II, but a bomb smashed the building to bits. Too bad, really. It was easy enough to snatch a few of the fools rushing down into the dark to escape danger. Escaping the bombs, don’t you know? Not so effective, when certain death lies in wait.” He cackled and did a complicated kind of mincing dance. “Now that nobody ever comes down here anymore, it’s mine. All mine.”
Gideon’s lips curled back from his teeth. The vampire truly was insane. But Gideon didn’t care about sanity, so long as Telios had acquired the sword.
“Did you get it?”
Telios quit dancing and gave Gideon a far too shrewd look. “I may have.”
“What does that mean? Either you did or you did not. Beware my anger, nightwalker. You are not immortal, for all of your pretense.” Gideon called to the earth for power, but he was bricked away from too much of it for the surge he needed. Not that vampires had real life force to drain, in any case, but it would be satisfying to destroy this particular vampire.
Not yet, though. He needed that sword.
“I got it,” Telios admitted. “It’s not here, though. I almost got caught, getting away. Had to stash it. I’ll go back for it tonight. There are other vampires searching for it, or so I’ve heard. Shifters, too. What is it about that sword?”
“Now, you fool. Get it now. I need that sword,” Gideon roared, his hands clenching at his side. Twice thwarted in one evening was twice too much for a Fae lord who had not been denied his will in centuries. There would not be a third time.
“Bring it to me tonight. Or you will pay the price in pain.”
“Why do you want it so much?” Telios’s eyes gleamed a deep red in the flickering torchlight. “What makes that sword so important to you?”
Gideon hesitated. Perhaps, in his anger and frustration, he’d overplayed his hand. “I simply want it. There is nothing more important about it than any of my other treasures.”
Telios nodded, but Gideon was almost certain he saw a flash of the vampire’s fangs, as if it dared smile at him.
“All right then. Whatever you say. I’ll try to bring it to you tonight. The price has gone up, though. I want six.”
Utter revulsion gripped Gideon at the thought of turning over six wood nymphs to Telios for his sadistic pleasure. Not, of course, that he’d ever intended to relinquish even the two the vampire had originally requested in the bargain. Telios’s death would solve that issue.
“You will not try, you will succeed,” Gideon commanded. “Do not fail. Bring me that sword or else you will be very sorry. We will discuss payment later.” He opened the fabric of space again and stepped through, not noticing until after he’d reached his destination—Fairsby Manor—that Telios was dancing again, and the vampire seemed far too happy for one who had been threatened by an Unseelie Court prince.
Gideon considered and discarded the idea of returning to Telios’s lair and teaching the vampire a lesson. Instead, h
e lashed out and smashed the lamp off the table in his study, but it was a pathetically feeble outlet for his fury. Once Telios delivered the sword, Gideon would kill him, anyway. Simply to give himself pleasure in a day that had held little. Once he had the Siren, the Unseelie Court queen would understand what the Fae must do in this conflict. It was their time again. Time for the Fae to rule over all of humanity and destroy any vampire or shifter who thought otherwise.
It was Fae destiny. It was his destiny. He would be a god. If she were very, very lucky, he might make Fiona his goddess.
Chapter 20
Fiona bumped her head on the roof of the car as she shimmied out of her gown.
“I must be blessed beyond all men,” Christophe said. “This is twice so far this evening I’m getting you naked, and the night’s not even half over.”
“A gentleman would turn his head,” she said, pulling her shirt over her head.
He started laughing. “You’ve got the wrong guy, Princess. I don’t plan to ever miss a chance to see you without your clothes on.”
She called the shadows and, bending light and dark to her will, disappeared from view.
“That’s so unfair,” he growled.
“Don’t mess with a ninja.”
“You know, you could have done that in the museum if anybody walked in on us.”
“And wouldn’t you have looked foolish standing there alone with your bits hanging out?”
He grumbled something in that melodic language. She wanted to ask, but was afraid he’d say it was, indeed, Atlantean and they’d be back to that. She pulled on her underwear and jeans, tricky but not impossible in the backseat of the moving automobile, and finally dressed, she released the shadows and lowered the privacy glass and pushed her dress through to the front passenger seat. It landed in a heap with the bodice sitting upright.
“Brilliant,” Sean said. “It looks like I was driving along, and my date melted right out of her dress.”
“Better work on your conversational skills, friend,” Christophe advised. “You probably bored her to death.”
Sean glared at Christophe then met Fiona’s gaze in the mirror. “So, do you really like this guy? Do I have to be nice to him?”
“Play nice, boys. Please. Sean, do you have my bag?”
He handed the leather tote back to her, and she pulled out a handful of chunky costume jewelry, her makeup kit, and a short black wig. She quickly donned the bracelets, rings, and necklaces, and then examined herself in the rearview mirror, considering. She added a pair of giant hoop earrings she’d never normally be caught dead wearing. Then she brushed on a thick layer of dark makeup. Smoky eyes, dark red lipstick, and bronzer. The final touch was the wig. She fit it around her head, pinning her hair underneath it. When she was satisfied that not a single strand of blond showed, she leaned back in her seat and turned to Christophe.
“What do you think? Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, right?”
“Who?”
“No movie theaters where you come from?”
“Sadly, no, but the prince’s brother Ven has TVs and DVD players in all of his safe houses, so we’ve watched a lot of films.”
“Of course. The prince’s brother. Anyway, watch that one. American classic.”
“I like the look. It’s kind of hot.”
She narrowed her eyes, and he raised his hands.
“Not as hot as you usually look,” he said, backtracking.
“Way to go, mate,” Sean said. “Smooth. Really smooth.”
“Yeah. It’s a gift,” Christophe muttered.
“This is not a nice part of town,” Sean said, turning down a road that was no bigger than an alley. “Are you sure about this, Lady Fiona?”
“Yes, I’m sure. We’re going to The Melting Moon, and we need—”
Sean’s yelp cut her off. “What the hell is that?”
He swerved the car and then slammed on the brakes.
A black vehicle—big, some kind of SUV—seemed to fill the windshield as it hurtled toward them at a very high rate of speed. Fiona cried out a warning or prayer or call for help; she wasn’t sure which.
Suddenly, the bright glow of blue-green energy filled the car. Christophe grabbed her and yanked her down to the seat, covering her with his body. But the expected crash never came; instead the loud screech of brakes sounded in front of the car and, seconds later, on each side of the car, too.
“We’ve got trouble,” Christophe said, unnecessarily. “Stay in the car.”
He kissed the top of her head, threw the door open, and leapt out of the car. She heard a loud hissing noise and immediately flashed back to a visceral, terrifying childhood memory, and her blood turned to ice in her veins.
Vampires.
Daddy.
“No. Not again. Sean, stay in the car and get down on the floor.” Calling to the shadows, she slipped out of the car behind Christophe, hiding from sight in the darkness and scanning the area. The dark forms advancing on them from the vehicle on this side of the car weren’t alone. More shadowy shapes climbed out of the vehicles in front and on the other side, and as she watched, a fourth pulled up behind them. They were barricaded in like sheep in a pen.
She had no intention of being a sheep.
Sean jumped out of the driver’s seat, a very serious-looking gun in his right hand and a wooden stake in the left. Hopkins must have been training him to do more than drive her around. She wanted to throw herself in front of him and protect him, as she had when she first met him, but she realized she’d do more harm than good. She was definitely firing that boy later, for his own good. For now, she flanked Christophe and ignored his stream of Atlantean cursing.
“Fiona, I can smell you,” he said softly. “If I can smell you, don’t you think they can? Or hear your heartbeat? Run, damn it.”
She’d forgotten. A childhood memory of fear had driven away common sense. She called to her Gift again and used wind and shadow to disperse any sound and scent. In seconds, no trace of her remained, and yet Christophe turned and stared right into her eyes.
“I will always be able to find you. Get out of here before you get hurt. Please.”
She knew what it had cost him to add that “please.” He was a man used to issuing commands and having them obeyed. She could tell that from the effortless way he’d taken over a leadership role in their quest for Vanquish. She wasn’t much for obeying, and she had a trick of her own—literally up her sleeve.
A ninja never left home unarmed.
“Nice night for an ambush,” Christophe called out to the vamps as he balanced energy spheres in each hand. “Didn’t have anything else to do? Polish your fangs, for instance?”
“You were heard inquiring about the Siren, human,” the lead vampire hissed. “We would suggest you drop your inquiry.”
“You need four carloads of goons to tell me that?”
“Bit melodramatic, wasn’t it?” Sean said, moving into place with his back to Christophe’s back. “I thought vamps could fly.”
“Some can. This lot are obviously the weaklings.”
“We plan to kill you,” the vampire said. “Unless you tell us, right now, who has Vanquish and where it is.”
“Interesting form of suggestion,” Christophe said. “Lots of vampires have planned to kill me before, bloodsucker.”
He hurled the energy spheres, twin gleaming arcs of death that exploded the heads of the speaker and another vampire on contact.
“Usually only once,” Christophe added.
The rest of the vampires, shrieking and hissing, leapt and crawled toward Christophe and Sean in a dark swarm of evil, bending and twisting in such inhuman ways that the mere sight of them almost made Fiona’s heart stutter in her chest again. But she mentally kicked her own arse to get moving.
She was the Scarlet Ninja, for Saint George’s sake. She was not a helpless ninny. She threw herself into a low somersault between the legs of two vampires leaping around the back of her car, and escaped the cl
osing perimeter of attackers.
When she looked back at them, Christophe had daggers in each hand and was—unbelievably—grinning. It was the fierce, exultant joy of a warrior in action, and she instantly knew in her heart that everything he’d told her about Atlantis was nothing but the truth. She ran back a few steps, carefully checking the vampire’s vehicle to be sure no one was hiding in it, and pulled the slender vials out of the pouches inside her sleeves.
One of Hopkins’s inventions, the thick plastic vials hid in the draped fabric of her loose sleeves. They fit in the palms of her hands and she could rapidly uncap them with a thumb, which she did. Then she headed back into the fray to surprise a few vampires.
She dashed out from behind the SUV then stopped, frozen in shock by the battle being waged with tooth and dagger in front of her. Never once in her time as a thief had she encountered violence on an up-close-and-personal level, and it was nothing like in the films. This blood didn’t spray artistically through the air.
No, it stained the side of Sean’s head and ran down Christophe’s arm and the side of his chest. They were black stains, glistening wetness in the dark. The vampires didn’t bleed, though. They exploded into a greenish-black wave of slime, which she knew would be acidic to the touch. Christophe and Sean had already killed at least four of them, maybe more, but there were seven left and they were attacking in waves, too close for one of Christophe’s magic spears to be effective.
He sliced at one’s head with his dagger and it yanked its head back, laughing and hissing at him.
“Fool. Do you think we are all so easy to kill? I have—” It stopped talking and shrieked, looking down. Though Fiona couldn’t see its chest, it was easy enough to see what had happened.
There was a silvery tip poking out of the left side of its back.
Sean cried out as a vamp sank its teeth into the side of his neck, and the sight broke Fiona out of her shock. She heard a scream, the sound like that of a banshee’s death herald, but she was running before she realized that she was the one screaming. She hurtled full speed into the back of the vampire attacking Sean, and dashed the entire contents of the vial onto the side of its face.