by Jenna Black
The starch went out of her shoulders, the fire dying in her eyes. Gabriel’s out-of-practice conscience twinged to see her misery. But he reminded himself that she’d agreed to his price, that he’d potentially saved her sanity by blunting the memory of that hideous attack. She might not like what she had to do in return, but he would hold her to that commitment.
“Tormenting them isn’t going to change what happened between you and Eli,” she murmured, not looking at him. “All you’re doing is—”
“Don’t provoke me, Jezebel!” he snarled, and he didn’t even try to rein in his anger, let her feel it roiling inside him. She shrank away from him. “Tell me about the meeting and keep your morality lecture to yourself.”
Even as she shrank from him, she gave him a knowing look. “It wasn’t morality I was going to lecture about, but never mind.”
He listened with only half an ear as she told him what the Guardians had planned.
7
CAMILLE GOT TO SPEND a grand total of two nights in her homeland. On the third, she found herself in the Maître’s limo, pulling up to the tarmac in front of a sleek white jet with its engines whining. Bartolomeo’s chosen entourage—four of his youngest fledglings, as well as a handful of mortal males—milled around outside the jet. One of the mortals dashed up to open Bartolomeo’s door as soon as the limo came to a full stop. The Maître stepped out onto the tarmac, then turned to offer Camille a hand out.
She sniffed daintily. There was something vaguely absurd about Bartolomeo playing the gentleman. Nevertheless, she accepted his hand after a slight hesitation. Let him have his pretensions of gentility!
He seemed not to have appreciated her hesitation. “You seem to lack some degree of enthusiasm for this hunt, Madame,” he said as he escorted her toward the stairway that led up to the plane’s door.
She shook her head. “It’s not that. Believe me, Maître, I have no qualms about hunting Gabriel.” Save fear for her own life, but she wasn’t about to admit that. “I just …” She smiled sadly. “Only three nights ago, I set foot in my homeland for the first time in four centuries. It’s a hard thing to leave again so soon.”
Bartolomeo’s brow darkened. “If you ever want to set foot in your homeland again, I suggest you keep your complaints to a minimum.”
She forced the sadness out of her smile and bowed her head to acknowledge the rebuke, even as she dreamed of ripping his throat out for treating her like this. She was his elder and his better, and she deserved to be treated as such. Why, once she was introduced to the Seigneur, she would surely be elevated to the rank of Maîtresse. She smothered a smile. Perhaps even the Maîtresse de Paris. Yes, she would enjoy deposing her unwanted ally.
Camille had just set foot on the first step when another car pulled onto the tarmac beside the limo. She turned to look and saw Brigitte Arnault step out from behind the wheel of an exotic-looking red sports car. Something Italian and handmade, no doubt. Brigitte’s companion, a tall, handsome male she had never bothered to introduce, stepped out from the passenger seat.
Bartolomeo’s shoulders stiffened, and he took up what looked like a defensive position. Camille stepped back onto the tarmac, curious. Why should Bartolomeo be tense because his underlings had arrived?
Brigitte wore a skintight black catsuit with a keyhole opening that displayed what cleavage she had. She’d compensated for her diminutive stature with a pair of high-heeled black pumps that probably cost as much as most economy cars. Her boy toy—or whatever he was—stood at her elbow, dressed in a fine Italian suit, the shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel.
Smiling at Bartolomeo, Brigitte raised a set of car keys and pressed a button. The car’s minuscule trunk popped open. Bartolomeo’s driver, who’d already loaded their luggage into the plane, looked at Bartolomeo for direction.
“Brigitte. Henri. What a pleasant surprise.” He tried a friendly smile, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. In fact, if Camille were pressed, she’d say he looked afraid of the pair. But why would that be?
Brigitte’s smile could only be described as impish. “I’m glad you think so, Maître. Would you be so kind as to have your driver load our luggage?”
The white lights of the plane leached most of the color out of everyone’s skin anyway, but Camille thought Bartolomeo paled. This made no sense, and Camille looked back and forth between them, trying to puzzle out what was happening.
“Are you sure this is … wise?” Bartolomeo asked, but he sounded desperate.
Brigitte laughed. “Probably not. But I’m coming anyway.”
Yes, Bartolomeo was definitely pale. Frightened. Camille reached out with her senses, examining Brigitte’s aura once more. But still, she guessed the woman’s age at less than three hundred, with Henri even younger. They should be no threat to Bartolomeo at all.
“Mlle. Arnault,” he said, and he sounded like he was begging, “please reconsider. Your mother—”
She snarled. “I have made up my mind, Maître. Henri and I are coming to America with you.”
Sweat beaded Bartolomeo’s upper lip. He stopped trying to hold onto his composure and openly pleaded now. “Don’t ask this of me.”
Brigitte smiled, her eyes twinkling with glee. “Oh, but I’m not asking anything of you. Have your men put our bags on your plane. If you don’t, I’ll have to tell Mother something beautifully inventive about your hospitality.”
His face bleak and scared, Bartolomeo motioned his driver toward Brigitte’s car. She nodded briskly, then practically skipped up the stairs into the plane, Henri trailing silently behind her like a malevolent shadow. Camille turned to Bartolomeo and raised her eyebrows.
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his sweaty brow. “Her mother is …” His voice trailed off, but Camille picked up the thread, making an educated guess.
“Her mother is the Seigneur,” she guessed. Obviously, the Maître was afraid of Brigitte’s mother, which meant she had to be more powerful than he. But that also meant she had to be considerably more than three hundred years old. If the Seigneur was more than three hundred, and Brigitte was less than three hundred, then … “Brigitte is a born vampire.”
Bartolomeo’s eyes closed for a moment. He was still sweating profusely, and his face hadn’t regained its color. “Oh, no, Madame,” he said. “It is far worse than that. Mlle. Arnault is indeed a born vampire, but her mother is not the Seigneur.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Her mother is La Vieille de la Nord.”
Camille’s mouth dropped open. Les Vieux, the Old Ones, were creatures of legend. Vampires of such enormous age and power that even the Seigneurs bowed to them. No one she knew had ever seen any of the Old Ones, and some people claimed they were a myth, a kind of vampire bogeyman, used by the Seigneurs to frighten those who weren’t sensible enough to be frightened by the Seigneurs themselves.
Bartolomeo stared up at the plane. “If La Vieille discovers we’ve taken her to America, we will both die more horribly than you can possibly imagine.”
Camille felt like screaming in frustration. She didn’t need this extra complication! But she understood Bartolomeo’s predicament. If Brigitte were to tell her mother some tall tale about Bartolomeo’s behavior, he was as dead as if he took her to America. Which would be fine with Camille, if only she hadn’t gotten caught in the crossfire.
Brigitte popped her head out the door and called down the stairs toward them. “Well? Are you coming or aren’t you? I’m anxious to see the famous New World with my own two eyes.”
Sighing, Camille climbed the stairs and heard Bartolomeo start up behind her. Perhaps having a born vampire in their midst would prove to be an advantage in their battle against Eli and Gabriel. The Maître seemed smugly confident that they could handle Gabriel, but he hadn’t explained just how he planned to do it.
Gabriel had a good two centuries on Brigitte, but with Camille and Bartolomeo’s combined support, they might actually stand a chance against him.
GABRIEL HID IN THE shadows a block away from Hannah’s apartment, and surveyed the situation. In his otherworldly vision, he saw Hannah’s aura as she paced relentlessly. She must be nervous. For as far as his senses could stretch, he caught no hint of another vampire’s psychic footprint. Perhaps even if he hadn’t known about the plan in advance, her very vulnerability would have made him suspicious.
He couldn’t see the mortal woman who was concealed on the roof of the building across the street, but he could feel her. Unlike Hannah, the mortal seemed steady and sure, hardly moving. He lowered his fangs and smiled.
“Let the games begin,” he murmured to himself, then slipped around the corner.
He’d been watching Hannah’s apartment all day, keeping just far enough away that Jules wouldn’t be able to sense him when he woke. He’d scoped out the neighboring houses, making sure he was intimately familiar with the area. And because of his vigilance, he’d seen the mortal woman, Carolyn, when she arrived in the late afternoon to take up her position.
He wasn’t sure exactly how she’d managed it, but she’d somehow gotten up to the roof from the inside of the building. Gabriel decided to take the more obvious route—climbing the fire escape.
He climbed effortlessly most of the way. The last few feet from the top of the fire escape to the lip of the roof were something of a challenge, but he used his telekinesis to give himself the boost he needed. He landed silently on the black tar roof, which sprouted antennae and chimneys like a forest of butt-ugly weeds.
Carolyn lay on her stomach beside one of those chimneys on the opposite side of the roof. She squinted into the sights of a high-tech rifle that was propped on what looked like a two-legged tripod. Then she lowered her head away from the rifle and stretched her neck. He could hear her spine crackle and pop even though he was still a good fifteen yards away. He moved a little closer.
Her concentration was fixed on the rifle and her view of Hannah’s window. There was no reason it would occur to her to look behind her. He inched even closer. This little demonstration would be of no use if Hannah didn’t know he was here, so he waited patiently for her to sense him. As a fledgling, her range wouldn’t be very good, and it would take a lot of energy for her to keep reaching out. But he knew she’d do it, knew she’d want an early warning of his approach to her apartment. He just had to get close enough for her to be able to feel him.
He was only about five feet behind Carolyn when he felt Hannah stop pacing. Once again he smiled. This was it. He had to be close enough now. He stepped a little to the side so that the chimney wasn’t blocking his view of her window.
A low buzzing sound emanated from a pocket in Carolyn’s pants. Her cell phone. She cursed softly and reached for it.
Hannah appeared in her window, face white as ashes, phone to her face. Her eyes strained out into the darkness and found him. He gave her a jaunty wave. Carolyn put the phone to her ear.
“What is it?” she hissed.
“I think Hannah’s calling to warn you that I’m standing right behind you,” Gabriel said, and watched her entire body go tense. He didn’t see any sign of another gun on her, and he didn’t think she could swing that rifle around and get a shot off at him, but he stilled her with his glamour anyway as he reached down and plucked the phone from her fingers.
He made a clucking sound with his tongue as he watched Hannah watch him. “A little too obvious, my dear,” he said into the phone. “You seem to forget, I’m not a moron.”
He heard her swallow hard. He could even swear he heard the pounding of her heart, though even his senses weren’t that strong. Spitfire though she was, she didn’t seem to be able to find anything to say at the moment.
“You’d better lock dear Jules in my father’s basement,” he warned. “Otherwise, I’ll have to make good on my threats.”
“Gabe—”
“You just stand right where you are and watch. There’s nothing you can do to stop me now.” He hung up the phone on Hannah’s wail.
She stood frozen in the window, shouting to him across the space that separated them. He tuned her out and focused on his would-be assassin.
She lay as he’d left her, futilely struggling against his glamour. He reached down and grabbed her under the arms, hauling her to her feet. Her pulse throbbed under his hands, sweat dewing her face as her breath came in short little gasps. He inhaled her scent, but as he expected, no taint clung to her.
He waited for the thrill of power that usually flushed his veins when he drank in someone’s terror, but it didn’t come. Then again, despite what his father thought, Gabriel didn’t make a habit of preying on the innocent, so perhaps it was no surprise that he took no pleasure in Carolyn’s fear.
Across the street, Hannah was crying, something he knew she didn’t do easily. An uncomfortable sensation stirred in his gut. Perhaps he should have set Jules up for this little drama instead of Hannah. He doubted Jules’s distress would have felt so disconcerting.
Carolyn trembled in his grip. He could only imagine what she thought he was going to do to her, given his fearsome reputation. And though he’d had every intention of scaring her half to death, something unpleasantly reminiscent of guilt troubled him.
Pushing his second thoughts aside, Gabriel moved to the very edge of the roof, dragging Carolyn with him. It was late enough for traffic to be sparse, which was part of his plan. He didn’t need any civilian witnesses. A single taxi cab cruised down the street, and there was no pedestrian traffic. No one to see what he was about to do, except Carolyn and Hannah.
His conscience nagged at him, and he whispered in Carolyn’s ear. “Have courage. I’ll catch you before you hit.”
Then, he shoved her off the edge of the roof.
Both Carolyn and Hannah screamed, their voices merging into one as Carolyn fell. Gabriel leaned over to watch, gathering his power to stop her fall before she splattered on the pavement.
A loud crack sounded from across the street, and at almost the same moment, something slammed into his shoulder, knocking him backward. It took every ounce of his concentration to reach out with his power even as he landed on his ass and pain blossomed and grew. Blood spurted from the wound, and the pain redoubled. The best he could do was to slow Carolyn’s fall, not stop it completely.
He heard a thump and a cry of pain, and once again he heard Hannah scream. He clapped his hand to his wounded shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain.
He stood up and staggered to the edge of the roof, keeping a low profile this time in case Hannah was lining up for another shot. But she no longer stood in her window.
Carolyn lay on her side on the pavement below, but even as he watched she pushed herself up to a sitting position. She would be all right. His relief at the realization surprised him.
Hannah charged out the front door of her apartment building and crossed the street without a glance in either direction. If a car had been coming, she’d have been road kill. She fell to her knees by Carolyn’s side, and the sound of her sob made something tighten in his belly.
The bleeding in Gabriel’s shoulder had slowed, though the pain was a relentless throb as his body worked to expel the foreign object. He slipped away from the edge of the roof, making his getaway before Hannah had a chance to recover her composure and come looking for him. He wasn’t sure how well his glamour would work when the pain was so distracting.
He deserved to hurt. He’d told Hannah he wasn’t a moron, and then he’d gone and acted like one, so focused on his plan for Carolyn that he hadn’t looked up and realized Hannah had drawn her gun. In Baltimore, Hannah had held a gun directly to his head and hadn’t been able to shoot. But he wasn’t at all surprised she found the will to shoot when she thought he’d just murdered her best friend.
Worst of all, he felt no spark of triumph from winning this little game. He’d expected to enjoy s
ticking a knife into Eli. He hadn’t expected to feel remorse for making Hannah cry!
The bullet popped out of his flesh, rolling down the inside of his shirt until it got trapped at the waistband of his pants. The pain receded. He untucked his shirt and plucked out the bullet, wrapping his fist around it.
This was a just punishment for his arrogance. He would be more careful next time. No matter how great his powers, if he grew careless enough to let someone shoot him, and that shot should penetrate his heart or head, he was as dead as any mortal man.
And if he was going to end up dead when all was said and done, it would be because Eli killed him with his own two hands.
JEZ THOUGHT SHE MIGHT very well be going crazy.
Tonight was the night Gabriel would spring his trap, and though she felt fairly confident he wouldn’t kill anyone, she couldn’t be sure. The not knowing was driving her nuts! She wanted it over, one way or another, but hour after hour ticked by and still no word. And although Gabriel could break into her apartment at any time of the night or day, could contact her whenever he damn well pleased, he’d given her no way to get in touch with him.
Man, she wished she could still drink alcohol. A couple of beers would have been real welcome just about now.
To distract herself from thinking, she stuck a Kanye West CD in the stereo. She’d have loved to turn it up to earsplitting volume, but though she’d used her music to torture her Gram whenever possible, she didn’t want to wake her neighbors.
Somehow, at moderate volume, it just didn’t have the same effect. Nonetheless, she danced to the heavy beat, trying to let herself drown in it, putting her whole body into it until she was drenched in sweat. She’d always been a good dancer, when she wasn’t too sick to dredge up the energy, and her friends at one of her favorite dance clubs had dubbed her Funky White Girl. It felt good to channel all the excess energy into motion, and for a little while, she actually managed to forget her worries.