by Tessa Dawn
“Brooke… ”
“That govern the house of Jadon. Ramsey knew that Napolean had taken your blood, and he insisted on having him track you.”
“Brooke!”
“What?” she murmured in a low, conciliatory voice.
“You’re rambling.”
“I know.”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but you didn’t do anything wrong. You were in an untenable situation. I get it.”
Brooke let out a deep sigh of relief. “Do you?”
“Sort of. That’s all I’ve got right now.”
“Will you ever forgive me?”
Tiffany felt her eyes dampen with moisture. This was such a mess, this whole damn thing, the whole damn Curse; and now, it was affecting her relationship with her dearest friend.
“Tiffany? Will you?”
“I will. I have. I do.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as if such a thing could stave off tears. “I just wanted to call and let you know I’m alive, let you know that I don’t hold what happened against you, and I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t go,” Brooke urged rapidly, her voice growing thick with compassion. “Tell me what’s going on. Please. Tell me how I can support you.”
“There’s nothing you can do right now,” Tiffany said honestly. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I just need some time to—”
“Carlotta packed all your clothes, and they’re being dropped off by courier, even as we speak.”
Tiffany slumped in her chair. Brooke was going to continue rambling. She would do just about anything to keep the connection open at this point, which meant she was still feeling insecure. “That was nice of her,” Tiffany said, staring out the window at the beautiful horizon of trees and mountaintops framing an immaculate, well-designed parking lot. She wanted to be available, but she wasn’t ready to talk about Ramsey or this particular Blood Moon, and she wasn’t able to fake cheer or sweep all her very real concerns under the rug. “So, I’ll call you in a day or two then?”
“Oh, Napolean found Bobee!”
Tiffany couldn’t help but bite. “Really? Where was he? I swear, I looked everywhere!”
“He was in Napolean’s master closet, stuffed inside a pair of steel-toed boots.”
“Huh?” Tiffany asked, utterly perplexed. “Why would the little prince put him there?”
“Well, from all that we could piece together, Phoenix associates those boots with Daddy working, with Daddy going to kick some—”
“Ass.”
“Exactly. And since he thinks of the purple dragon as a protector of sorts, he thought—”
“Bobee would go with Napolean and keep him safe.”
“That’s what I think, anyhow. He just said, ‘Bobee fight wif Papa.’”
Tiffany smiled—actually smiled—and then she broke down in tears. Oh hell, what the heck was happening to her now, and why was this the thing that finally sent her over the edge?
“Don’t cry,” Brooke urged. “I found your car keys, too. They were in a laundry basket.”
Tiffany was just about to come up with a hard-nosed, irrefutable excuse to get off the phone, when a haggard-looking woman with thick, multicolored hair came to the doorway of her office and stood in the threshold, looking more than a bit disheveled.
She appeared entirely lost.
Tiffany wiped her eyes and sat up straight in her chair, swiveling around to face the stranger. “Hold on, Brooke, there’s someone here at the office.” She held the phone away from her ear and cocked her eyebrows. “Can I help you?”
The woman didn’t respond immediately. She just stood there looking disturbingly freaky, in her poorly dyed black-and-red hair, an awful choice for a lot of reasons.
“Hey, Brooke, let me call you right back.” Tiffany hung up the phone without waiting for an answer, and then she posed her question again. “Excuse me, may I help you?”
The woman blinked in surprise, as if she hadn’t heard Tiffany the first time, or she hadn’t expected her to actually have a voice… Okay, this was getting weirder by the second.
“Yes.” The woman stared at the placard on the door. “Tiffany Matthews?”
Tiffany nodded her head. “That’s me.”
“Oh, oh, wonderful. May I come in for a moment?”
Tiffany frowned. “What’s this about?”
The woman sauntered through the door as if she didn’t hear her, again, and for the first time, Tiffany got a real good look at her eyes… and her clothes… and her demeanor. And all of it screamed walking tragedy.
The woman appeared to be young, late twenties, early thirties, and she was pretty enough, but she looked like she had really been through the wringer: There were bags under her eyes, her fingernails were dirty, and her hair was curiously disheveled. On top of that, she was wearing a man’s silk white shirt, at least several sizes too large, over a pair of—were those actually pajama bottoms?
Tiffany did a double take, trying to make sense of the material: Granted, the pj’s looked like they cost at least a hundred dollars—they were satin and pleated, for heaven’s sake—but still, they were definitely pajama bottoms. Men’s pajama bottoms. What the hay? “Are you in some sort of trouble?” Tiffany asked.
The woman looked positively rattled by the question, and she quickly shook her head. “No, no, not at all. Nothing like that.” She looked down at her clothes, absently smoothed her expensive shirt, and walked confidently to Tiffany’s desk, where she held out her hand in greeting. “My name is Tawni Duvall.”
Tiffany took her hand and shook it cautiously. “Hello, Tawni. I’m Tiffany.”
The woman threw back her head and laughed then—inappropriate much?—and then she sighed with apprehension. “I know I must look a mess. Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m still wearing pajamas.” She tried to cover the snafu with another inappropriate giggle. “Please, let me explain.” She looked at the black marble container full of business cards resting on Tiffany’s desk, and boldly reached out to take one: “Tiffany Matthews, Graphic Design & Marketing… ” She read it out loud with a smile. “You see, I’m new in town, and I’m also a graphic artist. And I was hoping to apply for a job.”
Tiffany coughed into her hand to subdue a harsher reaction. She was job hunting in a man’s shirt and pajamas? “Um… well… we only hire from the inside.”
The woman nodded. “I see. But I was kind of hoping to get some sort of contract work. You know, to provide remote assistance, if possible. I can do just about anything, and I work from home. So—”
Tiffany reached toward her desk phone. She was about to call security, which, honestly, was the last thing she wanted to do since Ramsey Olaru was still parked downstairs in the lobby, all six-foot-five, mean-as-hell inches of the warrior-sentinel; but this woman was truly weirding her out.
The woman stretched out her hand and held it over the phone. “Don’t! Please… don’t call security.” She looked positively scared to death, and then she withdrew her hand and took a cautious step backward. “Look, the truth of the matter is this: My boyfriend beat the crap out of me last night, so I’m a little bit out of sorts.” She looked down at her clothes. “And yes, I realize that I’m wearing pajamas and my hair is a mess, but I was just downstairs in the car… with him… and I had to get out and run, somewhere, anywhere. So I came into the building. Then he followed me, so I took the elevator upstairs. And then I wandered into your office, hoping to stall for some time.” She wandered to the window and peered out at the parking lot below. “It looks like his car is gone, so no worries. I’ll just get out of your hair.”
Tiffany felt oddly conflicted.
Normally, she would feel enormous compassion for someone in this woman’s predicament, but there was just something not right about her. She stood up abruptly and gestured toward the hall, beyond the open doorway. “Are you sure that he’s gone?” Even as she asked the question, she had a hard time believing that such a creepy guy could just slip right past Ramse
y and Julien, both coming and going? That seemed utterly impossible. She reached once more for the phone. “We should call the police, Tawni.”
“No!” the woman protested. She hugged her arms to her chest and took several steps back, heading for the door. “Please, believe me; that will only make matters worse. You have no idea just how much worse that would make matters.” She forced an insincere smile and practically curtsied in her pj’s. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you like this.”
Tiffany frowned and waved her hand. “No, not at all. You did what you had to, to get away from danger.”
Tawni let out an exaggerated sigh. “Thank you.” And then she shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I really am a graphic artist, and any contract work I could do would go a long way to helping me get the heck out of Dodge, if you know what I mean.” She held up Tiffany’s business card. “So if you don’t mind, I’ll keep this. Maybe I can send you my resume or something, some samples of my work. No pressure. Just a thought. And if you like what you see, that’d be great. If not, I totally understand—crazy woman stalking the office, not exactly a vote for confidence and dependability.” She straightened her shirt, took a few steps forward, and held out her hand. “Thank you again, Tiffany. And I really am sorry for freaking you out.”
Tiffany stared at the proffered hand and frowned. What if this woman was telling the truth? “Tawni, you should really let me call someone for you. If you’re not comfortable with the police, then maybe we can find a shelter nearby, a nonprofit that works with these types of situations.”
Tawni just shook her head sadly. “He’d find me, Miss Matthews.” She straightened her shoulders and tried to perk up. “But if you really want to help me, then keep your eye out for my resume. The thing I need most, right now, is a job, just a chance at independence.”
Tiffany watched as the strange and deeply troubled woman strolled quickly out of the door and practically jogged down the hall. If she’d had a better relationship with Ramsey—well, any relationship at all—she would have almost considered calling him, just to ask him to follow the woman for a little while, see what was going on.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
She sat back down in her chair and tried to shake it off, the chills and the overwhelming sense of foreboding that came, and left, with the peculiar woman.
Shaking her head, she tried to get a grip: Good grief, her own life was nothing but one chaotic mishap after another. Or at least, so it seemed. The last thing she needed was to get involved in some stranger’s domestic violence situation—her own domestic situation was more than enough to handle right now, no matter how pitiful the woman had seemed.
Tiffany quickly dismissed the subject from her mind.
She had more than enough to concern herself with, and while some bizarre-looking woman wearing hundreds of dollars of silk over a pair of men’s pajamas, and running away from some psychopathic boyfriend, may have been tragic, it really wasn’t her problem
Not today.
She could only wish the lady well.
*
Tawni Duvall ducked into the nearest bathroom, pressed her hand to her lower belly, which was aching like the dickens, and darted into the closest stall. She held Tiffany Matthews’s business card in front of her face like it was made of pure gold, and then she raised it to her mouth and kissed the font, right over the woman’s name, before carefully placing it in her right pajama pocket.
In Salvatore’s right pajama pocket.
She leaned back against the smooth gray metal door and sighed: Talk about thinking quick on your feet! Holy crap, that had almost ended in utter disaster, in failure, discovery, and imminent death.
Hers.
She brought her hand up to her mouth and bit into it, trying to calm her nerves as she thought about her impossible situation. Things had not gone well with her master last night, to put it mildly. In fact, this whole thing was turning out to be a never-ending nightmare, nothing like she had hoped or dreamed.
After returning to the colony, the term Salvatore used to describe the truly gothic, underground labyrinth where he made his home, the sadistic vampire had taken Tawni to a dusky underground lair, carved out of limestone and granite, littered with stalagmites and gargoyle-shaped candles, all over the floor, and that wasn’t even the part that had bothered her. She was all about the creepy, occult-looking symbols. After all, she had tried to summon a demon, and she had fully expected to explore the unseen bowels of hell, to descend into the depths of depravity…
What she hadn’t expected was to be chained to a massive iron bed on a garish raised platform and then beaten within an inch of her life, just to be healed again with venom, over and over… and over. The entire scene had been terribly savage, her master’s way of demonstrating his superior vampiric powers and inherent male supremacy. She hadn’t expected to be used like some cheap, two-bit whore. Sure, she had expected her master to want sex, and she had even hoped she might enjoy it—after all, Salvatore Nistor was drop-dead gorgeous, despite his blackened soul—but what had transpired between them last night had been so brutal and violent, so debasing and painful, that even in her demented imagination she could not find a way to reconcile it. She had not expected for her womb to still ache or her thighs to be covered in mottled bruises, even after his after-glow healing. And who the heck wore three condoms at once, anyhow? Something about avoiding pregnancy at all costs: babies with claws, ribs exploding, and a foul, distasteful smell that her master wanted to avoid.
Tawni shivered and quickly dismissed the thought. There was no point in recalling all the horrific details. The truth of the matter was simple: Salvatore Nistor had a rare and demented sense of humor, to be sure, and she had just made the biggest mistake of her life, one she could never take back. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. It was a little late for regrets.
Now, as she stood in a lonely bathroom stall in the Dark Moon Vale executive suites, she closed her eyes and just let the terror, anguish, and grief sweep over her. As it ran up and down her legs like a dozen tiny spiders, traveled along her spine in an ever-expanding web, and ricocheted throughout her head like a host of animated silk sacs, she struggled to accept her new reality: a life without pardon or even a moment’s peace.
“Stop it, Tawni,” she whispered. “This is what you asked for. This was the bargain you made.” Besides, she added silently, maybe Salvatore will actually be pleased with you for once. Maybe he’ll actually do the soul extraction and the conversion, sooner than later, and you’ll have powers of your own to fight him with. She stroked the outline of the business card, rubbing her thumb over the thick, expensive paper, and hardened her resolve. Just stay strong, and concentrate on the assignment.
The assignment Salvatore had given her had been ill-advised, way too soon, and dangerous as hell, not to mention just plain stupid: Tawni had no idea what she was doing yet; she had no idea what Salvatore really wanted from her; and she had almost screwed it up. That woman was far too smart and perceptive to fall for her pathetic story—her boyfriend had just beat her up in the parking lot…
Yeah, right.
All Tawni knew was that Salvatore was hell-bent on testing her, making her prove she was worthy of his gift of immortality before he bestowed it, and he had ordered her to take a cab to DMV Prime, find Tiffany Matthews, and engage the woman at once: try to make some positive inroads, start up a friendship, see if she could even get a job. According to his highness, Tiffany was the key to Tawni’s salvation, as it were, because the woman had access to the second most important vampire in the house of Jadon, Prince Phillip… or Pharaoh… or something like that. And more than life itself, Salvatore Nistor wanted to strike at the heart of the house of Jadon by destroying the little prince.
Whatever.
All Tawni knew was that Salvatore was utterly and completely mad, as in crazy as a loon. She had tried to explain that she needed to wash her hair, groom herself, especially if she hoped to apply for a job. Hell, a
skirt and blouse would do nicely as compared to a pair of baggy pajamas and a too-expensive silk shirt, but her comments had only stoked the fire of his anger. His madness. And after two more rounds of Salvatore’s version of sex play, Tawni had been willing to crawl into Tiffany’s office naked if necessary, plead for the woman’s mercy, and demand to know where to find Prince Pharaoh at gunpoint, if that’s what it took.
Salvatore had given her one imperious directive: “Come back with Tiffany’s business card as proof of your success, or die a slow and painful death without ever knowing immortality.” Even now, Tawni shuddered as she remembered the threat. Salvatore had not been kidding—the vampire didn’t kid. And since he had taken her blood, running away was not an option. According to him, he could track her anywhere on earth, and she had no reason, whatsoever, to doubt him. As far as Tawni was concerned, the male could make it rain, thunder, and lightning. He could probably spin straw into gold or reverse the sun and the moon if he chose to, let alone hang them in the sky.
The male could do anything.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true…
Salvatore Nistor could not go out in the sunlight, and that’s why he had sent Tawni, instead. That’s why he had refused to make her immortal, like him.
At least not yet.
She sighed, once again rubbing her hand over her pants pocket to feel the edges of the card, so safely tucked inside. And then she checked her watch—it was only 10:45 AM, so she still had lots of time. As it stood, she would have to take a cab to the outskirts of the Red Canyons, hike a couple miles in, until she came to a series of crumbled caves, and then wait like an idiot for her master to come and claim her, once the sun went down.
So be it.
This was her new life.
In the meantime, she would use the wad of cash Salvatore had given her to buy a decent pair of pants, and then she would swing by the local library to use their computers, see if she could google Tiffany Matthews, learn more about her soon-to-be best friend.
And after that?
Well, if she still had time, she would try to buy some marijuana at a nearby dispensary and maybe even score a couple bottles of ibuprofen. She would need all the pain relief she could get, and if she had to get through the next few days by remaining high, then she was all for the prospect.