Chapter 12
July 1813
The Peninsular War
Â
Vlad Dracula brooded as he kept watch over the small French campsite. The army floundered ever since Napoleon left the Spanish Peninsula five years ago. Every day, guerilla fighters and poor decisions combined to decimate the troops. The English General Wellington's victory at Vitoria today shattered the army. Morale was in the sewers.
Even better, Dracula had offended France's Marshal Soult with a suggestion for a counterattack via Roncesvalles. The marshal had summarily kicked Vlad out of the army.
Vlad eased his body onto a fallen log and set his bottle of blood and rum on the ground.
Radu, Vlad's own brother, had sided with the British. Vlad frowned at his dusty boots and stained uniform. And now he was dirty. It was enough to dampen anyone's spirits. He took a slug of his sweet and salty drink. Getting drunk was the perfect solution for tonight's disasters.
A faint rustle disturbed the scrub beside Vlad. He turned his head disinterestedly.
“Hello, darling.” A doe-eyed woman emerged from the shadows. Her enormous diamond earrings, his wedding gift to her, caught the moonlight. Vlad's heart caught.
He'd pierced her ears himself on their honeymoon. The diamonds were to ensure that she never went hungry, never had to rely on another for anything. She'd never taken them out.
Inexplicably cheered at her well-being, Vlad smoothed his hair and stood to face his former wife. “What do you want, Ilona?”
“Radu wants you dead, my husband,” she said, her formerly luminous eyes sad, lonely, and completely frozen. “He's heard of your plan and your ejection. We cannot afford you lose on the battlefield.” She circled him.
He countered her movement. “I'm already dead.” Vlad managed a weak joke to cover his heartbreak at seeing his wife again.
“Forgive my lack of precision.” She allowed a brief smile at the reminder of their old banter. “But my master demands your dust.”
“The brat sent you to do his work for him again.” Vlad let his disgust through.
She shook her head, her face regretful. “Radu controls me.”
“I see.” He stopped. He faced her. “Radu truly chose well. No one could compare to you. No one ever has.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not trusting his gentle words.
Her skin glowed like a pearl in the night. Vlad remembered the taste of her mouth under his and the headiness of their passion in their younger days. He had broken her maidenhead with his ivory erection, bringing them both ecstasy over and over on their wedding night. He could still see her wet, writhing body underneath him, the wine-colored stain on the bedding. Vlad had held those small, firm breasts in his hands, learning her pleasure.
She had even cried for him when he hinted of his treatment under the Ottomans.
Radu knew that Vlad couldn't raise a hand against his former beloved.
He put his hands on her shoulders. “We were happy once. I cherish those memories.”
Ilona put her hands on his waist in reply.
“I always loved you,” he whispered.
“No, Vlad, you didn't.” She shook her head sadly. “If you had loved me, you would have told me your secrets. You liked me well enough, though, and that counts for something.”
His frozen heart cracked at her disbelief. The only person he'd trusted didn't believe in him. Nevertheless, he needed her caress one last time. “Come to me.” He held out his arms.
They touched foreheads, a sign of affection from long ago.
“I am sorry,” Vlad whispered.
She didn't look up. “As am I.”
He felt the telltale tightening of her back as she clasped the stake behind her back.
His knife sliced through her clothes and bodice to her heart. The diamonds dropped soundlessly to the ground as her ashes and dust floated away.
Vlad knelt, coated in his wife's remains. He could never forget her, and never forgive Radu for taking her away from him. In honor of his love, he stabbed those earrings through his own lobes. They would never come out, for he could never forgive himself, either.
Dracula would not risk his heart again. The memory of her forehead on his, the feel of her dust falling on his hands, allowed no other contact beyond manipulation and feeding.
Ilona, his only love, was dead by his own hand.
Chapter 13
Lance escaped by the theater's back door. Protestors blocked the front, but the rear alley was clear. Lance ran through the dark rain past a Dumpster, trying to reach his car before he was noticed.
His scalp tightened in a familiar and very unwelcome way. Something nasty was about to happen.
A flicker of movement to his left warned him. As he turned, an enormous tiger padded out of the cold drizzle toward him. The calculating gleam in its gold-green eyes said this was no escapee from the zoo. It crouched, the muscles in its haunches bunching.
Ready to spring on him.
As they sized each other up, Lance realized something very important.
He didn't want to die.
Lance held his left hand out, signaling the were-cat to stop.
“What?”
The cat sprung like a freight train, slamming him back first against the unyielding ground. Momentarily paralyzed, he saw massive jaws opening to sever his neck.
Hail saved his life. A sudden downpour of stinging ice pellets distracted the tiger.
Lance heaved a breath and pushed against the ground. Those evil teeth missed his throat as the tiger's perch shifted from under him.
Before the tiger could regain his aim, Lance thrust a finger into one golden eye. Blood and fluids splattered over his hands.
Four-inch fangs sank into his shoulder. Sharp teeth sliced to the scapula.
The body-searing pain just stiffened his lips and firmed his resolve to live.
A blessed Gerber II knife fell from his sleeve into his hand. He shoved the black anodized blade into the tiger's ear.
Man and beast roared at each other as Lance twisted the knife and struck again. Razor-sharp claws ripped through his leather jacket as the animal jerked back from the blow.
Blackness crept around the edges of Lance's vision. He wasn't going to make it.
From above, a gold dragon flew through the gloom. As gray suede shoes crashed heel first into the tiger's back, Lance saw his lady in black, her embroidered coat settling around the tiger. Blood fountained from Lance's shoulder as she forced the animal to the street.
The vampire landed with her feet firmly planted on the tiger's body. A quick tremor, then it shifted underneath her. She fell to the pavement. An enormous bloody baby-faced blond man landed on top of her. He reached for her throat.
A cluster of protestors, still chanting “Kill them all, kill them all,” walked past the alley. Lance, the vampire, and the were-tiger froze in their gore-drenched tableaux until the last one passed. The second they had passed, the vampire punched the tiger right in its ruined eye.
Lance clapped his free hand to his shoulder as he squirmed for his firearm. As the tiger roared in pain, she jabbed for the were-tiger's remaining eye.
The shifter flinched away but kept squeezing, trying to break her neck. As she scrabbled to poke his other eye out, the click-click of Lance's handgun broke the fight. Both of them halted in midmovement.
“Let her go,” Lance ordered, his nine millimeter steady in his slick hands.
The were-tiger raised his pawlike hands.
“Face down on the ground. Put your hands on the small of your back,” he ordered.
Slowly, the other man lowered his bulk to the street.
“What were you doing?” Lance demanded. The shifter pressed his lips together.
“He came to kill you.” The Dark Lady raised herself to her feet. Her hair billowed in the wind and rain. Blood coated her hands and arms. Surrounded by her black aura and the black, wet night, she looked like a goddess of battle.
Her sensual voice danced on the air and coated his skin like a bottle of truly expensive cognac. The type one avoided, even if they could afford it. Because one taste and nothing else would ever satisfy again.
It warmed him in all the wrong places. Those wrong places thumped as she whipped off her thick leather belt. How he could feel any arousal with his blood pumping out of his shoulder, he didn't know. Nevertheless, there it was. A minor miracle, no doubt.
She knelt down. A few swift moves and she'd bound the attacker's hands behind his back. Knee planted in his kidney, she finally looked Lance over. Her eyes narrowed as she took in his damage.
“You need stitches.” A quick reach into her pocket and she tossed a perfectly starched white handkerchief toward him. He shook his head and stepped back, keeping his weapon clear. Like a dove, the cloth fluttered to the ground.
“I heal quick.”
Despite the stereotype of the controlled, centuries-old being, the lack of reflective mirrors until twenty years ago meant PNCs had lousy poker faces. Though they controlled every muscle, not being able to see what your face was doing meant emotions twisted as they saw fit.
Lance liked what he saw on her face.
She stared at him, her eyes wide and her cheeks pale in hunger and despair. Then she licked her lips. A ferocious sexual attraction ran from his throat to his gut and buried itself in behind his testicles.
He knelt down and looked in the tiger's ruined face. “Why did you try to kill me?”
The tiger said nothing, but flashed a cold look of complete contempt at Lance.
Typical. Irritating.
The vampire leaned against the wall, her teeth bright in the gloom. “He reeks of Radu Tepes.”
The tiger flinched and shrank into the broken pavement.
A puzzle piece clicked into place for Lance. Mr. Tepes had been uncharacteristically silent during the press conference. Instead, Radu had merely given a short, meaningless statement about common goals.
The CCC had been the major media star before tonight. In every report on the conference in both national and international news, Tepes's image had been used as the background picture. He had hinted over and over at a major announcement.
Now the CCC was below-the-fold news.
Lance narrowed his eyes. The Consortium for Concerned Citizens, a wealthy, influential, international operation, wanted Lance dead. He stood, his eyes on the vampire's red, shiny mouth.
Not the doom he was hoping for.
Pushing off the wall, the woman gave a twisted smile. “I do believe we have something in common to discuss.”
The next puzzle piece sprang into clear focus. She wasn't in Portland for the conference. She was here for the CCC's frontman.
The fire door clanged open behind them. A policeman looked out and saw the mess.
“Hell,” she muttered.
She squeezed his arm once, hard, then she released him.
“Come back to me,” he hissed.
Her black coat twirled around her, and as she disappeared, she whispered, “Lucifer couldn't keep me away.”
Chapter 14
Could she have been any more careless? Valerie hunched her shoulders against the sopping rain as she crouched on the theater's roof. She'd failed
again.
Two failures in one night were not acceptable. How could she let herself remember how she'd murdered her own wife? How could she follow Lance instead of going after her brother? Radu was already safe in his limo by now. She'd lost her chance at her release by interfering with the tiger attack.
Everything she'd worked for since 1945 had brought her here tonight, and she'd blown it. Twice. She was throwing her redemption away for challenging eyes and an unusual aura? Disgust had her pinching the bridge of her nose.
Soleil did nothing but hinder her from her brother's well-deserved death. The priest had distracted her, she told herself. Delayed her. Turned her clit into a pulsing knot of need. She shifted, rubbing her swollen labia against the seam of her pants.
The smell of cloves and musk and blood on her hands made her mouth water. Unthinking, Valerie licked her index finger. At the first taste of Lance's blood, her nipples burned and her mouth tingled, as though she'd sipped from the sun. Whatever he was, his blood blew her mind. She sucked the entire digit into her mouth. Dignity and thinking were abandoned as she desperately chased down every smear of the intimate fluid on her hands.
His taste lingered on her tongue, more stimulating than a triple espresso in plasma with a brandy chaser. It flew through her body like cocaine, but better, healthier, stronger, bringing her an amazing sense of well-being and peace. As though her darkest deeds were not beyond the capacity to forgive.
She bit her lip. No tears, she had to remind herself again. Draculs did not cry, especially male Draculs. Both of her parents had beaten weeping out of her. Valerie swallowed her tears, instead giving herself over to the heat of his blood.
She tightened her thighs, massaging her clit against her panties. An orgasm teased but remained elusive. Valerie refused to lie to herself anymore. She wanted more. She needed more. If she didn't get more, she'd go insane with wanting. How could she stay away from her light-bringer? When was the last time she had felt hope?
Valerie's earrings seemed to drag at her. How could she survive if she were responsible for another lover's death? If she lost this one ...
No. She would not fear failure.
Radu wasn't going anywhere, she told herself. She could kill him anytime. Blood like this only came along once in a long lifetime. She tucked her soaking wet hair behind her ears and looked down at him.
From her vantage point, Valerie could see Lance had spoken truly. He healed fastâvampire fast. His bare chest shone in the rain and the streetlights as the wounds closed. He leaned against the building, waiting on yet another person to take his statement. Cameras and reporters lined the yellow police tape.
An idea hovered on the edge of her consciousness as she watched the torn tissues knit together.
Radu wanted him dead.
She wanted Radu dead.
Radu or his man would come for the priest again and next time, be better prepared for the man's unique talents.
The only sure way to catch her brother would be to stay very, very close to one Lance Soleil.
He would be her irresistible bait in an unstoppable trap. It was a perfect plan. She settled her coat around herself.
Rigid self-honesty forced her to admit this plan was concerned with having more of his delectable body than Radu's death. May Lucifer's home have mercy on what soul she might have.
Â
Â
At midnight, the police left with the tiger, one Roger Corbetti, in custody. The firemen rinsed away the last of the gore, coiled their hoses, and left. Valerie stared down at Lance as he inspected his weapon. His shoulders drooped. The way he shifted his feet suggested exhaustion.
He looked utterly edible.
This mortal intrigued her. Everything from his wicked bright aura to his guarded eyes to his exquisite handling of a pistol fascinated her. Purity and danger, all tied up in one perfectly shaped package.
He pulled out his little phone. “Jane? Yeah, I got delayed.”
Whoever Jane was, she wasn't his lady. Despite the darkness spotting his aura, he wasn't the sort to give one woman the come-hither when he was committed elsewhere.
“No, I did not get attacked by a lion.”
Jane said something indistinct in reply.
“It was a tiger.”
Valerie twitched her lips at his deadpan delivery. Funny guy.
“Oh, thank God.”
Fortunately, Valerie was too old to twitch at the Holy Name.
“I'll come in after some food and sleep, since things have calmed down. You rock, girl.” He hung up.
No more waiting.
Though the crowd had disappeared, a few die-hard photographers remained. Valerie narrowed her eyes. How could she arrange privacy for her plans?
A gentle push from her toes and she dropped from the rooftop. Soft as a leaf, she landed behind the paparazzi.
One by one, she hunted them.
Before the war, she would have cut their throats or broken their necks. Before the war, she would have fed royally. Now, though? She had to be careful.
The first fell from a strike to the carotid. The next she hit at the base of the skull. One by one, she dropped them to the ground unconscious. The hunt was almost as satisfying without the kill.
Valerie set aside her disappointment. Even with the eight photographers' slow, healthy heartbeats in her ears, Lance's clove-laden breath and pulse overrode her hunger.
She walked up to him.
“Excuse me.”
He turned at her voice. His blue eyes sharpened when he saw the people out cold.
Those eyes made her clench her thighs. Arousal took her clit in its hard embrace.
“Yes?” he answered.
Lucifer's claws, the man's voice rubbed up and down her skin like a supple tongue, rising gooseflesh under her breasts.
“You do heal fast,” she murmured approvingly. The possibilities of a fast-healing lover had her licking a fang behind her lips.
“Seminary's good for something.” He held out his hand. “Lance Soleil, Tualatin Mountain Homeless Shelter.”
His arm stayed in the air as she studied his face. She had a bad track record in love. Could he survive her? Could she survive losing him?
He didn't waver or look disconcerted at her reluctance. Lance just waited, poised on the balls of his feet for whatever happened next. His body told her he'd take her down as comfortably as shake her hand.
What the hell. Even unlife was too short for everything she wanted.
“Valerie Tate.” She stepped within his brilliant aura and clasped his hand with hers.
His constantly moving glow kindled a long-dormant flame in her icy chest. It caressed her endlessly, exciting her even more than his smell. His calloused, firm hand wrapped her in warmth, enthralling her. To be a vampire meant to be cold and, despite the mythology, outside of society's good graces. Warmth, once found, was not easily given up.
“My apologies.” She withdrew her wayward hand and put it in her pocket, away from trouble. “May I escort you home?”
Lance's eyebrows went up, but his face remained calm. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled on a pair of gloves. “Why?”
Liquid heat slid down her breastbone to her center. Red leather creaked and flexed around long, clever-looking fingers. She shuddered at the thought of those digits in delicate places.
This could be the worst idea of her existence.
It could also be the best.