Masters of the Night (30 page)

The bony appendage shriveled to the elbow and he fled. But not before
he sent a bone-cold thread,
I will return for you
, hurtling toward
Angie.

Henri swept past James after the hawk, and commanded fervently, “If I
do not return, you must protect her with your life or the world as you know it
dies.”

A pair of long, thin-boned legs leaped the courtyard wall into a python
pit, one of the Lady Jane’s refurbishments.

Henri leaped in after it.

Silence followed.
A stillness
without even a
puff of dust.

The Shadows searched the pit. There was no sign of the
Lammergeier
.

But the pythons seemed happy.

Unfortunately, there was also no sign of Henri.

Andre declared him dead.

Epilogue

For almost an hour
Henri stood before the window in the forest hilltop cabin gazing down through
the trees at the distant city. A light mist glistened on the treetops and
rooftops, and car lamps sparkled in the dark on the faraway streets.

He was shirtless and barefoot, wearing only his Italian pants.

Angie sat on the sofa wearing only a sweater with the emerald necklace
he had given her for her birthday, her only other adornment.

She tied her birthday cards together with a red ribbon.

Opening a little wooden chest with a lock and key, she placed them
inside and put the chest on the coffee table.

“It was a great party.”

“I liked the after party,” he said, his eyes traveling to the luscious
thighs below the sweater’s hem.

“I read my mother’s diary,” she said unexpectedly, looking up at him.
“When the train derailed, the slayer lunged at Nicholas and missed, hitting the
school teacher. Nicholas exchanged the teacher’s handbag and belongings for my
mother’s, then told her to get the hell off the train and make a run for it.
She
hightailed
it out of the train car. He made up the
story about the spike, and the world thought Allison Weston was dead. The
entries after that are of days in the park with me, how she had so much fun
with me on picnics, swinging me in the swings, things like that. And dinner
dates and things with a man she absolutely adored. A man she married. The
entries stop on January 6, 1991, the day my grandmother told me she and my
father died in a car wreck. So in a way, both my grandmother and Nicholas told
the truth.” She paused thoughtfully. “Why did he help my mother, do you think?”

“He was a vanguard, highly regarded, with wealth and power, and Jane.
The advent of a new order would have changed all that.
Relegated
him to the pig troughs, a foot soldier—obsolete, archived and forgotten.”

She slipped the diary in the box and locked it.

“And what else is in that diary worth locking it away?” Henri asked,
arching an eyebrow.

She flashed him a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve got a crazy grandmother
who’s just been transferred to an undisclosed location. I don’t even know where
she is, but gee, she’s just crazy enough to blab all of Allison’s secrets.
Crazy enough to
blog,
twitter and blackberry every
envoy on three continents. And one of those secrets is the Count’s—various
locations.” She patted the box. “Right here in Allison’s little old diary. He’s
probably going to be kept busy relocating for quite a few centuries—if he lives
that long.”

She joined Henri at the window. “You were pensive at times tonight. Was
it the crowd I run with?”

He smiled. “I think I fit right in. We’re all a bunch of misfits. Ex-
vampyres
,
vampyres
, relatives of
vampyres
, an old slayer from somewhere on a mountain top, a
couple of smart ass kids who play with stakes and run with knives.”

“Then a penny for your thoughts?” she coaxed.

“How was your visit to the doctor?”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting as in you’re pregnant, or interesting as in you’re not
pregnant?”

“Interesting as in I can’t get pregnant. I’d say they’ll lose interest
in me pretty quickly now.”

“Nonetheless, you are powerful and it will be dangerous if we stay and
join the Shadows to fight the Realm and Jane. They will not believe I’m dead
for long.”

He lifted her into his arms and kissed her, soft and long, moving his
mouth caressingly over hers.

“You realize,” he said, “You have become a mystic slayer and the Realm
masters will never know as they haunt the night that you move in the shadows
behind them, until you touch their thoughts with your threads?”

“Speaking of touching,” she said. She pulled her sweater over her head,
shook her hair free and used her real power, the power of a woman, to decimate
him, wrapping her legs around him in just the right place.

“Don’t need to read your threads,” he moaned, aching pleasurably as her
soft hands moved downward.

I love these pants
, she threaded.

•
•
•

Elizabeth
Brockie

A native of
Oklahoma, Elizabeth
Brockie
graduated from the University
of Oklahoma with a bachelor’s degree in English Literature. After graduation,
she relocated to Southern California, became a college instructor, and began a
career in writing.

When she isn’t at
her laptop, she works for a grant program at the local high school district,
enjoys cooking and trying new foods with her husband, and spending time with
their golden retriever,
Summer
, and cat, Taffy. Her
two children, presently residing in California, are her best critics and loyal
supporters of her writing.