by L. D. Rose
Dax flipped on the lights as she pivoted to face him, his gun still pointed at her chest. He cleaned up well—very well—most of his wounds fading into his olive skin. He carried himself like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t been nearly beaten to death the night before. Standing almost as tall as Alek, he wore a similar build—broad shoulders, lean physique, trim waist.
Otherwise, he looked nothing like her sire.
The hybrid sported a bit more muscle, more grit, more edge. She had to admit, she liked that. Maybe prowling the streets had changed her taste in men, but she no longer found imperial elegance as attractive as she used to. The harsh light glinted off his piercings, metal she hadn’t noticed before, and she found them intriguing. Of course, she’d encountered many vampires who chose to mutilate themselves in such a manner, but she never understood why.
She’d never felt the compulsion to shove a steel rod into her skin.
He dared a glance in the mirror, a flat rectangle of glass spread across the wall. She tracked his exotic eyes, meeting them in his reflection. His gaze was intense, disarming even, and something dark and predatory swirled within the depths of those luminous blue pools. Maybe it was . . . what did he call her?
Ah, yes. The leech inside him.
A full fifteen seconds passed, both of them studying each other’s reflections, neither saying a word. The tension between them thickened the air into molasses.
“You have five minutes.” He broke the silence as he stepped back over the threshold. “Make it quick.”
And with that, he slammed the door shut.
Cindel exhaled in a whoosh of respite. She looked back at herself in the mirror, glimpsing the evidence of her sadness smeared all over her face, hardly recognizing the pitiful creature regarding her.
No wonder he’d stared at her like that.
Weak. Pathetic. Some monster she was.
Focusing elsewhere, she fiddled with the lights until they were dim enough to tolerate. She would’ve shut them off completely but she didn’t want to upset him. He already seemed a little unstable, and the last thing she needed was for him to barge in here and pump her full of silver.
Or maybe that was just the thing she needed.
She turned on the shower, cranking the temperature up to slightly below scalding. She peeled off her dress, the satin still sticky and damp, and tossed it aside.
She would burn it the first chance she had.
Eschewing her reflection, Cindel climbed in the tub, steam embracing her skin. She stood under the hot spray for a good five minutes, wasting precious time to soak up the comfort like a flower in need of rain. She preferred a bath, but she wasn’t about to object.
Bowing her head, she watched the water cascade in thin streams from the ends of her hair—her short, fake noir hair. She’d been fond of it for a while, but now she hated it. She hated her painted black toenails and fingernails, hated her phony smile, hated everything about her ‘free’ life.
But she hated her old life too.
You hate everything now, don’t you? Maybe Dax will cure your hatred and end it all.
And why didn’t he? What was he waiting for?
What exactly did she expect from him?
Hope. A childlike voice whispered in the back of her skull, a voice from a mortal past she no longer remembered. Hope. Was that why she stood here? Was it foolish hope that had her surrendering to a hybrid, to her very own hunter?
Maybe. Or maybe it was something else.
Fool. You’re a fool for never being satisfied with what you had.
Cindel grabbed the bar of soap off the shower rack, sniffing it, the same soap Dax had used. Floral, musky, with a hint of silk. The faded label stamped into it read Caress and she smiled at the irony of it. Washing up quickly now, she shampooed and conditioned her hair with some other botanical-scented product. Once finished, she felt infinitely better, cleansed and revitalized. She turned off the shower as he rapped on the door, the thunderous sound making her jump.
“Time’s up, leech,” he growled through the wood. “I have places to be.”
Cindel ignored him, stepping out of the tub and removing a dark gray towel from the shelf. She wiped herself down and dried her hair before wrapping the rough fabric around her body. The towel practically engulfed her, the edge brushing the backs of her calves like a gown.
She glanced in the mirror one more time, combing her fingers through her tangled hair, and tucked the dark strands behind her ears. Without her mask, she looked tired and worn. Stress lines tugged at the corners of her eyes and mouth, her obsidian eyes huge in her pale face. Once, she would’ve cared about her appearance, now she couldn’t give a damn.
Hope, ha. It didn’t exist. Just like freedom.
She opened the door, slowly at first, hinges creaking, steam puffing into the hall. She peeked out to find him leaning against the wall between the mystery room and Maddy’s room, knee bent and gun dangling at his side. He tensed as soon as he noticed her, eyes taking in her face before they made a cursory elevator-like motion, down then up. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat and his jaw flexed, but he didn’t lift the gun.
With his gaze darkening from cobalt to indigo, the swirling entity made its presence clear as his minty-orange scent seized her brain, heady and inebriating. Desire rippled down her spine and washed over her nerve endings, gathering in her core in a warm rush.
She never believed hybrids had the ability to ensnare, but he’d proven her wrong.
“I don’t have any clothes.” Her words came out in a breathless whisper, her knees like gelatin and her bones like putty. His glamour wasn’t as strong as a sire’s, but it was enough to make her body betray her if he asked it to.
Dax pushed off the wall, muscles tense, posture wire-tight. He moved stiffly, rigidly, as if struggling or in pain. He kept his distance. Maybe he didn’t quite trust himself, and it occurred to her that he had no control over his lure whatsoever.
She didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.
“Stay right there,” he warned, his voice hoarse with lust. Even if she tried to move, she probably couldn’t. He shifted toward the doorway of the master bedroom and blindly reached for something around the corner, keeping his incandescent eyes fastened on her. Returning with a pile of fabric, he threw it at her like he couldn’t wait to get rid of it.
Or her.
She didn’t even attempt to catch it, afraid she’d crumple to the floor if she did. The shirt struck her chest before pooling at her feet and she managed to look down, tearing her eyes away from him with tremendous effort.
“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting her foot slowly, carefully as she stepped on the soft cotton. Dragging it over the threshold onto the tile, she swallowed around her fluttering pulse. Without looking at him again, she shut the door, blocking him out, her hand trembling against the white surface.
Cindel breathed out a shaky sigh and heard him do the same. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on the door, the surface warm and solid, keeping her steady. God, she burned with a vicious need, with aching hunger, and she couldn’t tell if the cravings belonged to her or him.
“I told you to stop,” he rumbled with a menace she felt deep in her belly. “I warned you.”
Stupid man. “All of this is your doing, hybrid.”
“Bullshit.” Anger saturated the word and she decided anger was better than this awful need throbbing inside her. Little by little she regained control, and she sensed he did too.
If you enrage him, he’ll stop.
“You’re a fool.” Her voice sounded stronger this time, firm, without the husky whisper it held before. “You know nothing of what you are.”
“I know exactly what I am. And I know a lure when I feel it. It’s not going to work so quit while you’re
ahead.”
Cindel pushed off the door, strength trickling back into her muscles as she bent to pick up the shirt. She dropped the towel, leaving it at her feet. “You won’t believe me no matter what I say.”
“No, I won’t.” The venom in his voice was toxic and she was glad to hear it. “Now hurry the fuck up.”
She slipped on the shirt, the hem falling to mid-thigh. The maroon cotton was worn, feather-soft, and smelled of him. Unable to resist, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, reveling in his pheromones.
His fist hit the door. “Let’s go,” he bellowed, followed by the metallic clicks of a gun loading.
She wrenched the door open and he leapt away in surprise, aiming the weapon at her. She wore her best glare, but temptation swam in his eyes again, threatening to melt her into a hot mess. Forcing her attention away from him, she placed one bare foot in front of the other as she walked toward the stairs. The greater the distance she put between them, the easier it became, and she entered the kitchen in no time, surviving the descent. He shadowed her, but she didn’t dare look at him again. She simply sat on the chair, encircling her arms around its back, and waited for him to tie her up.
When he just stood there, she injected acid into her words, but it hardly compared to his sting. “I thought you had places to be, hybrid.”
After a long nerve-wracking pause, he pitched a sigh, but said nothing. Squatting down behind her, he set the gun on the floor as the metallic jangles of handcuffs rang in the air. Tungsten carbide squeezed her wrists and cables tightened her ankles, resetting her into the awkward position she’d slept in before. He barely touched her, hardly brushed her skin, and she was fine with that. Rejection was better than this gnawing hunger in her gut, chewing through her veins, eating at her heart, and driving her sanity to the edge.
It wasn’t until he left, the slam of the front door reverberating into the building, that she allowed herself to sag in the chair. Reprieve swept over her, nearly bringing her to tears, but she beat them down, dousing the fire at the backs of her eyes with resolve.
No more crying. No more helplessness.
If he wanted a fight, she would give him one.
~ ~ ~
Jacques Montague quietly shut the mahogany doors behind him. Motionless sentinels stood at either side of the entry, and he spared them a look before moving into the torch-lit hall of endless art galleries, pillars, and Roman arches. Striding over the navy Persian carpet, he approached the expansive room at the end of the elaborate corridor. A dark and oppressive presence infiltrated his mind, seeping through the steel barriers of his psyche like an insidious poison.
The Sire of New York City, Alek Konstantinov, was not happy.
Alek stood in the center of the room, wearing one of his elegant tailored suits, a three-piece charcoal number that perfectly represented him—intelligent, powerful, ruthless, and calculating. His neatly styled short dark hair and smooth fair skin spoke of his obsession for cleanliness and organization, although he never hesitated to get down and dirty when required.
And as of late, Alek was practically filthy on a daily basis.
While the sire stared up at a sculpture of Carpeaux’s sensational ‘Ugolino and His Sons,’ Jacques cautiously approached from behind, halting at least ten feet away from his master. He eyed the marble masterpiece of a starving human and his sons, who begged their father to consume them. The expression on Ugolino’s face revealed the vulnerable moment when he considered cannibalism while three of his children desperately clung to him and a fourth lay dead at his feet.
Not only was it disturbing, but it depicted the true visceral struggle amongst vampires.
Drawing his eyes away from the alarmingly realistic visage, Jacques bowed his head in a gesture of servitude, hands clasped behind his back and boots shoulder-width apart. Silence descended over them, only magnifying the proverbial elephant in the room.
He would speak only when spoken to.
“Have you read ‘The Divine Comedy,’ Montague?” the sire asked softly, calmly, but Jacques didn’t miss the ominous note in his tone. Resonant, melodic, edged with a Russian accent, Alek’s voice could hypnotize thousands and coerce them into anything.
“No, my Lord. I have not.”
“What a shame.” The sire tsked. “You should. It’s quite an education.”
Although Alek acted as if he and Jacques were one and the same, they were not. The sire was born a vampire, a true-blooded strigoi. Jacques had been infected by one, resulting in his conversion when he served as a French soldier in the Second World War.
Of course, he didn’t recall a single moment of his historic mortal life. He only knew what he’d been told by his master, the lethal creature brooding before him.
Alek turned his head, exposing his chiseled, Slavic profile. “State your confession, warrior.”
Jacques lifted his chin and cleared his throat, bracing himself. “Enzo Imbruglia is dead. One of the Senary cut him down on his yacht in Rhode Island with about two dozen of his men.”
A pause from the strigoi, his utter stillness unnerving. Then the corner of his mouth twitched before he faced the statue again. “On his yacht.” Alek shook his head with obvious disdain. “Well, I suppose I should thank the hybrid bastards for eliminating my competition.”
The sire spun on his heel toward Jacques, a smile on his pale lips, but the fury igniting the stygian dark of his eyes flamed a brilliant sheen of crimson. “Which half-breeds were involved this time?”
“Dax, the cryokinetic.”
Alek raised a brow. “The Oriental clown?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Was he alone?”
Jacques nodded. “Caldre Ballard discovered the yacht docked in the Newport Shipyard and packed with dead vampires, including Imbruglia. Few were barely alive and reported the hybrid attacked solo and unaided.”
“I’m sure Caldre isn’t particularly devastated.”
True, the Sire of New England seemed pleased with the outcome, since Enzo had targeted his territory. “No, I don’t believe he is, my Lord. But he expressed concern, since he’s already dealing with the Trinity, never mind a Knight from the Senary.”
Alek narrowed his eyes into obsidian daggers. “And what exactly did Ballard say to you?”
“Forgive me, my Lord, but he said you’d better exterminate your pests or he’ll do it for you.”
The sire stared at him for a beat, deadpan and unblinking. Then he laughed, the sound terrifying and nearly maniacal in its intensity, loaded with grisly promise.
“Oh, did he really? I’m going to fillet that xyecóc and gorge on his heart—”
“That’s not all, my Lord,” Jacques interrupted, and instantly regretted it as Alek aimed all of that rage at him, the sire’s spine rigid, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists. The air condensed with power, a dark, viscous energy that gave way to the sensation of breathing in treacle as it coated Jacques’ skin like tar.
“Then tell me, you imbecile.”
“He believes Cindel is alive.”
The sire froze, big shoulders bunched, every muscle wrought with tension. “What did you say?” The slightest tilt of his head, as if he couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept it.
Jacques understood completely.
The snake of anxiety gripped Jacques’ chest, constricting his ribcage with every breath. “Ballard is convinced Cindel is alive.”
Alek bared his knife-blade fangs. “He lies.”
Jacques didn’t flinch, but it took much effort and years of practice. “One of Imbruglia’s men recognized her with the hybrid. Apparently, Dax had seized her as a hostage, although she’s changed her appearance—”
“Where is he now?” Alek demanded. “This witness?”
“Dead, my Lord. He’s dead. They’re al
l dead.”
The air grew even denser, a coagulated soup of rage and power beating at everything it touched. Nothing yanked the demon out of Alek like the mention of his presumably deceased wife.
Jacques resisted the urge to retreat, to recoil from the suffocating energy congealing in his lungs. “Ballard has offered to retrieve her—”
“She’s gone, Jacques,” Alek boomed, his features briefly twisting into the feral mask of his true nature. “I haven’t sensed her since she disappeared, since our connection was severed years ago. If she’s alive, I would know it, feel it, no matter where she’s located. Do you understand me?”
Jacques didn’t respond, simply kept his gaze leveled with his master’s, prepared to endure his wrath. He empathized with Alek’s reaction, intimately relating to the inferno in his eyes and the fire in his blood.
“We were bound, she and I.” Alek took a menacing step toward him, his mere presence a force to be reckoned with. The ebony aura surrounding him seemed to engulf the room, black tendrils clawing at every corner. Ugolino was now a forgotten effigy, no more interesting than lawn furniture compared to the monster before him. “By blood, body, soul. Her absence left a hole in me that has never been filled, do you understand, Jacques?”
Oh, he understood quite well. “Yes, my Lord.”
“Cindel is dead. I refuse to entertain any other possibility. Caldre is a two-faced louse who’ll stop at nothing to wound me. Who would stoop so low as to resurrect the memory of my dead mate? For what? To send me on a wild goose chase because of a dying vampire’s hallucination? Does he think me a fool? He only serves to distract me long enough to rob what’s mine.”