Dalton, Tymber - Brimstone Blues [Brimstone Vampires 2] (Siren Publishing Classic) (5 page)

She smiled, content. “Love you too, big guy.” She didn’t find it corny at all that he liked saying it. On the contrary, it felt good to finally have someone to say it back to.

He left the bed only long enough to clean up. Then he returned and snuggled her tightly in his arms.

He was already asleep, and she was drifting off to sleep, when she remembered she’d wanted to talk.

Nertz.
She’d talk to him tomorrow after work.

Chapter Four

He nervously drummed his fingers on the table, procrastinating. Caroline was a poor choice, but there had been no other viable alternatives at the time. Rafael Collins was an unfortunate casualty. Caroline wasn’t supposed to kill him or anyone else, only Anastazia Proctor, and even then only as a last resort. They’d preferred her alive, or at least intact. A Tribunal member’s murder, especially a close blood relation of Matthias Hawthorne, brought the united weight of the Clans down without mercy.

He couldn’t protect Caroline. Fortunately, he’d only supplied information about her to his handlers and not had direct contact with her on these matters. She wasn’t strong enough to breach his mental barriers the few times they’d interacted in the normal course of business. She was disposable, and while he’d had his concerns, he had thought her smart enough to complete the operation with a modicum of discretion and skill.

After taking a deep breath, he placed the dreaded call. “It’s Timon.” He used his code name. Nothing he did could ever tie him to the events in Yellowstone, or he would be sitting in a cell next to Caroline. Unless Hawthorne got hold of him first.

Then he’d be dead.

“About time you called me back,” Gerard said. “I’ve heard nothing for two weeks. What’s going on? Have you acquired the target?” The man sounded like a stereotypical American country bumpkin, but Timon knew from his dealings with Gerard that it was a carefully cultivated and deceptive image.

“There have been…complications.”

A long silence from the other end, followed by a deep, evil growl. Gerard’s friendly country accent was replaced by a chilling, threatening tone. “What do you mean, complications?”

“The person referred to you for this mission failed, and is now incarcerated and under the Tribunal’s control. She will most likely be executed.”

“Shit.” There was another long pause. “I paid you a lot of fucking money to get this done. I could ruin you. That is, before I kill you.”

Fear curled and tightened around his heart. This was the only man he feared as much as, if not more than, Matthias Hawthorne. “I will have an opportunity shortly to personally see to it,” he quickly said. “Anastazia Proctor will come to London for the Tribunal hearing. I will send my local contact instructions and coordinate with them. Once I have her in my possession, I will turn her over to your associates.”

“See that you do. I don’t like it when I pay for promises people don’t keep.” Gerard’s growling tone sent shivers up Timon’s spine. He’d never met with Gerard face-to-face, but imagined he was an unholy terror to behold if the rumors were true. “I guarantee you do not want to fuck with me, Timon. I can make you one of the most powerful men on the planet, but I will destroy you if you fail me again.”

The line went dead. Timon replaced the receiver with shaky hands. He had no doubt Gerard meant every word he said.

Timon planned.

Chapter Five

The next morning, Matthias found Taz downstairs in the kitchen, eating breakfast and dressed for the office.

He kissed the back of her neck. “What are you doing, love?”

“Playing poker. What does it look like?”

He sighed. She was in full snark mode. “I mean, why are you dressed like that?”

“I can’t go to the office naked.”

He sat across from her. “Why are you going into the office?”

“If this is going to be one of those, ‘You don’t have to work, baby, I’ll support you,’ talks, forget it, big guy.”

“Taz, it’s only been a few days.”

“I’m going to work. I need to get back into a routine.”

“But—”

She glared at him, her look silencing his protests. “I’ll get dressed,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can drive myself.”

“Taz—”

She glared at him again. Again, he shut up.

Taz softened her tone. “Matthias, I need to do this. I need some semblance of normalcy, a routine. I still have a job to do. I don’t care that I’m going to be Mrs. Hawthorne, I still work for Hawthorne International. I’m not one of these women who can be a stay-at-home wife. I envy those than can. If I don’t work, I climb the walls. I need to work, it’s who I am. You have to accept that.”

“All right.” He reached over and patted her hand. “Just don’t push yourself too hard, please?”

“I won’t. Don’t send anyone after me, either. I don’t need a babysitter.”

* * * *

After the werewolf-like Other attacked her and trashed her corporate rental home, Robertson moved all their things to Matthias’ house. He’d also had her car brought over, the corporate Lexus.

Taz stood outside the detached garage and looked at the car, hesitating. She could drive—

“Take the Mustang, baby girl. That’s a sweet ride.”

The voice again. She didn’t know why it spoke, unbidden.

Or why it had to sound like Rafe. If it had to sound like a dead man, why couldn’t it imitate her father? He’d been dead long enough for her to be over her crushing grief.

She
did
want to take the Mustang, her father’s red 1965 Mustang coupe, the one he taught her how to drive in. Matthias bought it before he ever met her, tipped off by Robertson that it was for sale, wanting to keep it for her.

It didn’t have a way to play her MP3 player, but oh well. She wanted to drive it and take the long way to work.

The
really
long way. A drive would settle her mind and help get her back on track.

She flipped the driver’s seat forward and put her things in the back, then slid behind the wheel and remembered. She closed her eyes and inhaled the smell of the interior, unchanged from that day when she was sixteen. It was one of the few times her father ever picked her up from school, the day he taught her how to drive. Like everything else in her life, she’d picked it up right away.

“My little girl needs to learn how to drive a stick. You learn on a stick, Tazzie, you can drive anything,”
he’d said. Eric Proctor was a race-car driver, and she’d inherited his lead foot.

Taz gripped the steering wheel. She imagined his voice, his Dublin brogue sounding so strong in her memories. She remembered his dazzling green eyes. She missed her parents so much. Her father was the only one who ever called her Tazzie.

Had it really been almost twelve years since their death?

Well, presumed death. The small plane they were passengers on en route to Rio disappeared without a trace. She was supposed to go on the trip with them, but at the last minute she cancelled, wanting extra time to study for her college finals. She’d stayed home in LA with Robertson…

No, I won’t think about that. Not today.
At least she had Robertson. He was like an adopted dad, working for her family ever since she was a baby.

She put the key in the ignition, right foot on the brake, left on the clutch, and shifted to neutral. Then brake and gas, it fired to life on the first try. Matthias had taken good care of it, keeping it in perfect running order. He gave it to her two days ago, after their return from Yellowstone, hoping it would help cheer her up.

She loved him for it.

She put it in reverse and carefully backed out, circled the driveway to get a feel for the clutch again, then drove down to the highway. She waited for a gap in traffic on Tarpon Springs Road and took a much longer route to get to downtown Tampa, but it allowed her to open up her antique pony on the interstate.

She settled for a FM radio station out of Tampa. She’d need a new radio, but the car ran as good as it ever had. It would have been easy to let the tears flow. Instead, she choked them into submission. She didn’t want to cry, not anymore. There had been enough tears for a while. Mourning Rafe wouldn’t end anytime soon. Tears wouldn’t bring him back, either.

Hawthorne International owned a thirty-story building in south downtown Tampa, overlooking the St. Pete Times Forum complex. When Taz reached the garage, she turned to valet parking. The attendant recognized her, surprised to see her in a different vehicle.

She headed upstairs while fighting a case of nerves in the elevator. Matthias had implemented stringent security measures to prevent a repeat of the attack, but this was a personal demon she had to stare down.

The day they revealed to her she was a vampire.

God, just a couple of weeks ago?

She’d been alone in the executive suites when a strange visitor attacked her. In the nick of time, Matthias and the others rushed in, dispatching the man with a sword.

In disbelief she watched as the man—a
daemon pulverem
—disappeared in an acrid puff of smoke.

That’s when all hell broke loose, and they were forced to tell her the truth, that they were vampires, and so was she.

Will I ever get used to that little factoid?

The elevator stopped, jarring Taz back to the present. The doors slid open on the top floor, their executive suite. Taz paused before walking past the conference room, then steeled herself and did it. There was no sign of the attack, not that there was much of one to begin with. Albert had disposed of the creature’s knife, and what was left of him after he exploded in a cloud of ash was easily vacuumed up by housekeeping staff.

Taz hadn’t been to the office since.

She’d stormed out after shouting she was quitting, certain they were pulling a horrible prank. Just to be attacked hours later at home by an Other, a beast that made Lon Chaney, Jr.’s Wolf Man look like a Labrador Retriever puppy by comparison.

And rescued, again, by Matthias. Only that time he almost died.

All those events started a downward spiral, circling the proverbial drain, and her self-control dissolved as her powers took over.

The Ice Queen melteth.

No phantom laughter met her thoughts that time.

Taz sat behind her desk and tried to quiet her mind, still feeling nervous and agitated, as if two personalities were at war within her.

Murry strolled in. Taz stiffened, and the cat hesitated.

“Is this a bad time?”
he asked.

“You realize I’m not used to talking cats, right?”

He sat, sniffing as if insulted. “
I’m not a cat.”
He damn sure looked like one, large and black with a white star-shaped mark on his forehead.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He jumped into the chair he usually occupied and glared at her. “
You’re welcome, by the way.”

Then she realized what he meant. “You went nuts before the
daemon
attacked me.”