Blood-Mage Rising

Evernight Publishing www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2012 Tory Michaels

ISBN: 978-1-927368-96-1

Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs Editor: Karyn White

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION This is for my husband, who always supports me no matter how crazy the dream, and Jacynthe, who saw the potential in Jordan long before I did. Without her prompting, Blood-Mage Rising wouldn’t exist. Thank you both for everything!

BLOOD-MAGE RISING The Dream-Walker War: Book 2 Tory Michaels Copyright © 2012

Prologue

Ares dumped the third body on the sidewalk. Music from the nightclub a block away pulsed through the balmy night. Even though he was so close to a large number of people, the vicinity immediately around him was deserted. He’d broken the streetlamp above two days earlier, and, as expected, the city hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet, giving him the cover of darkness. The woman – he never caught her name – stared up at him, shock still clear in her dark brown, cow-like eyes. She’d been a fighter, that one. Bruises covered her wrists and ankles, the wounds so rare to find on a vampire. The quad responsible for her capture and death had been brutal with her. Ares didn’t approve of rape, not even in the war he wanted, but he gave his people a free hand, as long as they accomplished the goals he set before them. The quad here in Tampa seemed to glory in the torture side of things. Aware he wouldn’t have long before someone came upon the scene, he crouched and studied all three bodies. Though most of the injuries varied from corpse to corpse, they shared two specific ones. The death blow on each came in the form of near decapitation, heads held to the bodies by only small slivers of flesh. Ares smiled, looking at the second wound in common each of the three bodies carried: a quadruple claw gouge from right hip to left shoulder. He touched the ragged flesh ever so gently on the third victim. It sent a message. It invoked the memory of the original group of Aristocrats and their reign of terror in London. He’d usurped the

name for his followers. By invoking that legacy, the other races were much more likely to believe what he needed them to. On high alert from the risk of dumping the bodies himself rather than allowing the quad to do it, his senses warned him a halfsecond before he heard soft footfall. Glancing up, he saw a figure step out of the alley behind the nightclub and turn in his direction. He stood, brushed himself off, and smiled. Let the games begin.

Chapter One From VampiresForever.bnha.org – When Considering Conversion: If you’re mage-born, you shouldn’t even be looking at this list. The Circle outlawed blood-mages two thousand years ago, and they won’t bend the rules for you. If you choose to disregard the above, know an execution order for you and whatever stupid sap converts you will be issued as soon as the Council and/or the Circle gets wind of it.

Chris gauged the early morning sky as she pulled off the highway at the exit for Fort Myers and Lehigh. She still had a couple of hours before it grew too bright for her to be outside. Her phone rang in the cup holder located between the driver and passenger seat of her Ford F-350. She didn’t recognize the South Florida number. Utilizing her Bluetooth, she answered. “Hello?” “Chris?” The rich, melodic voice with faint traces of an Arabic accent identified the caller immediately. Chris grinned. “Xanthea, my God. You’re local?” “Only for a few hours. Are you available to speak with me?” “A few hours? Um, yeah. Where are you?” Obviously Xan wasn’t in Egypt. What on earth brought her all this distance? She never travels. “I just landed at the airport. Can you come here? My flight for California leaves in three hours.” California? That’s odd. Though she knew Xan wouldn’t see the movement, Chris nodded. “Yeah. I just got back from Vegas a few hours ago.” And what a difference a few hours made. Her world had been blown apart by the revelation of a string of murders. She still didn’t

know how she felt about the entire situation, much less what she’d been asked to do about it. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she flipped the signal on and scooted across two lanes of traffic to get into the lane that squirted her over toward the airport. A horn blared in protest as she cut one of the million plus local blue-hairs off. Xanthea tended to know everything. What were the odds that the ancient one “happened to drop by” just as the shit hit the fan? Very low, Chris decided. “I will await you by the check-in counter for Delta.” “See you in about twenty minutes.” Glancing around for any sign of the cops, she stepped on the accelerator. It wouldn’t do to keep Xan waiting. People turned up injured or dead when the ancient woman grew impatient. **** Nineteen minutes later, Chris dashed across the road into the sheltering comfort of the concourse. The August sun at eight in the morning might not be deadly to her, but she still couldn’t dilly-dally. No vampire could, no matter what the hour or how young. Relieved when she stepped through the sliding glass doors, she peered around. After only a second, she recognized the tall woman. Given Xan predated the Archaic period in Greek history, Chris wouldn’t be surprised if she learned one day that the Greeks had based the legends of the Amazons, in part, on her old friend. Xan stood a half-foot taller than her own five-foot ten frame, frozen forever somewhere in her mid-twenties, if one had to guess. Possibly younger, but no one who cared to live asked anything that personal of the ancient one. Dressed in a black cotton abaya with a silk hijab of the same color loosely draped over her head, Xan’s alabaster skin looked luminescent. When her onyx eyes met Chris’s, a rare smile lit the woman’s face, and Xanthea glided across the busy terminal. Chris felt underdressed beside the ancient one, wearing her standard in-public uniform of t-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. In the paranoid days more than ten years after the attack on the World Trade Center, Xan garnered suspicious looks. She reeked of the Blood and wore Muslim attire. Chris picked up more than one stray thought through her telepathic gifts, and they weren’t charitable. Xan stooped enough to press a soft kiss to her cheek and then inclined her head toward a bench that overlooked the runways.

Knowing better than to initiate contact with the sometimes frightening vampire, Chris trailed in her wake and plopped down on the bench. The other woman settled far more gracefully next to her and folded pale hands in her lap. Sunlight streamed over them both, beautiful but not deadly, thanks to modern science which had developed a coating for surfaces that blocked out the wave length that killed the vampires. All new public buildings used it, and as airports expanded or remodeled, they added it to their structures as well. Silence stretched between them. For something to do, Chris propped her boots up on the low-lying window sill. Not far away, an American Airline jet taxied away from the loading ramp. Finally, after three minutes passed with no indication of a break in the silence, Chris gave up trying to be patient. She wasn’t very good at it anyway. “So, what dragged you out of Cairo?” “Email doesn’t have the same appeal as a face-to-face conversation, and we haven’t talked in quite some time.” “Uh huh. Am I in trouble for something?” Very unlikely, but it seemed a good way to keep Xan talking. Chris needed to get home. This trip had taken away from her set-aside time to see her horses, and her task involving the bodies wasn’t going away. “Not at all.” A feather light touch on her shoulder brought Chris’s face around, and she met Xan’s fathomless eyes. Very quietly, no doubt to avoid curious eavesdroppers, Xanthea said, “Are you aware that a new group calling themselves the Aristocrats is wandering about?” Chris nodded. She didn’t mind that Xan didn’t revert to telepathy, despite the topic. Contact with the ancient mind creeped her out big time. The other woman didn’t feel remotely human, or even vampire. Just hearing the name “Aristocrats” sent slivers of icy unease down her spine. Once before, there’d been a group by that name. They had terrorized the non-humans in London, and England in general, for more than fifty years. “Anthony just told me a few hours ago. They found a couple of bodies in Tampa outside a nightclub.” The body count hovered near three hundred humans and nonhumans across the globe, at least as far as she’d been told. One never knew how much Anthony might be keeping to himself. Only members of the Circle and a few members of the Council knew about

the problem. Who knew where Xan came up with the information, given its hush-hush nature. “What do you think of the resurgence?” “It’s gotta stop before word gets out.” Given the ritualistic markings on the bodies, once word spread, the non-humans could turn on the vampires. Things were bad enough for the vamps without new suspicions cropping up. Not a week passed without at least one editorial or gossip rag posting inflammatory garbage. She’d been turning up more articles in her searches lately too. “I don’t think the old Aristocrats are involved.” Xan sniffed and looked away. “I agree with that assessment. The scheme is far too widespread for the Bloody Baron.” Chris sank her teeth into her lower lip, containing the tremor that name sent through her body. She knew better than most just what the baron was capable of. “He is cold enough, but he’s never been interested in power over any but our own kind. He thinks the rest of the world is beneath his notice. Whoever is involved wants more than just control over the Blood.” Chris sighed to herself, her momentary unease passing as Xan left behind the topic of the baron. Her friend’s presence so far from home, given the difficulties ancient vampires had in traveling long distances because of their daylight restrictions, spoke volumes about her mission. “If anyone asks, I am not involved, Chris. If I wished to be involved with current events, I would be a member of the Circle.” No doubt she’d lead the Circle, the shadowy body that served as the Blood’s ultimate authority, if she so desired. Thankfully for all of them, she didn’t. “Naturally. I don’t s’pose you’d care to cut to the chase, would you?” A smile tilted the edges of Xan’s mouth up. “You’re such a sweet child. Direct and blunt, even in the face of someone who could eliminate you with a thought. That will serve you well in the days ahead.” Chris shrugged. Her motto, show no fear, served her well with friends along with enemies. “Whatever. You wanna kill me, do it.” “I’d miss you if you died.” In the course of their idle chitchat, their voices had risen to normal levels. With her next statement, Xanthea returned to the barely-audible whisper. “No one need know I spoke with you.”

The piercing gaze Xan leveled on her burned to her very soul, and Chris fidgeted on the uncomfortable metal bench. She nodded, just so the look would desist. It might not be magic, but damn, the woman could shrivel a body with that lethal expression. “Good. If, or rather when, you find these Aristocrats, tread very carefully. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. No one does. Not yet.” “Eh?” That was unusually obscure, even from Xan. “More than that, I don’t care to say. It is premature. Simply walk carefully. Take every precaution. This may be a threat I failed to see coming.” She stood, brushed a speck of lint that had had the effrontery to fall on her abaya. Her voice, soft as it was, trembled. “I thought it couldn’t happen any more.” Something was troubling her, Chris realized, for even that much emotion to show from the normally tranquil vampire. Concerned, she hopped to her feet and reached out, not quite touching her. “There may come a time when I must become involved, but until more of their plan is revealed, I dare not. I don’t know what these people want, and that frightens me. I don’t know why these Aristocrats are on the move, what their end game is. Most of all, I don’t know why they’re revealing themselves now. I thought they were all gone.” Chris couldn’t mistake the plaintive despondency that came through with the end of the little speech. Still, the “all gone” held her riveted, and excitement made her jump up. Maybe they were about to catch a lucky break. “You know who they are?” Xanthea’s face cleared, assumed its usually pleasant expression, and she shook her head. “If I did, I would tell you.” She took Chris’s hands in her own, her skin cooler than a human’s but not abnormally cold. “If you believe me on nothing else, believe this: you must root these people out. All of them. Do whatever you must; work with whomever you have to. Don’t let them escape. I trust you, your judgment, on whom can help you best.” Surprised by the calm, yet vehement words, Chris stared at her. Even Anthony, head of both the Circle and Council, hadn’t seemed this upset, and he’d been containing the disaster for several months. “But you won’t get involved?”

“I can’t. They may watch for that. Until we know who the actual puppet master is, I will not know whether my involvement will improve our chances or destroy them. I must know.” Xanthea’s grip loosened, and absently she tucked the hijab closer about her ebony hair. The cloth blended perfectly with the dark strands. “Tell me something. Do you still have the amethyst I asked you to hold onto some years back? “That hideous thing? Yeah, of course.” Xan had given it to her about a century ago with instructions to keep it locked away. No explanation, but that wasn’t unusual. Since Chris owed the ancient one a great deal, including her sanity, she hadn’t even considered saying no at the time. “What would I do with it? I doubt anyone would buy it.” The gem was badly flawed, with more than one crack. The inclusions rendered it almost worthless, even if cut down by a master jeweler. Still, it had meant something to Xan, so Chris had locked it away. It was currently in her safe at home. Xanthea nodded, her expression distant. “You’d be surprised. Keep it safe, especially now.” Blinking out of whatever thoughts had distracted her, she smiled softly. “One last thing. Guard your dreams, my sweet Christine. I sense a second dream-walker somewhere in the world.” That statement sent an invisible fist into Chris’s solar plexus. If she needed to breathe, she would have gasped. Blood drained from her face, and her eyes widened. “There are no other dream-walkers. They died out.” “So it seemed. But I know what I sense. It’s possible a young mage-born is just coming into their power, and the timing is coincidence.” Xanthea frowned as she rested one hand on the glass. “But given the strength I sense, the sense of purpose that shakes the very essence of the world, I do not believe that to be the case.” Chris cursed under her breath. The day just kept getting better. Every single race, human and non-human alike, feared the dreamwalkers. Centuries ago, so legend had it, the dream-walkers could kill through the dream passage. Only others like them could hope to keep secrets when a dream-walker invaded a person’s dream. “What is the chance the person you sense is a blood-mage?”

It shouldn’t be possible, given the laws about mage-born conversions. Of course, that assumed one got caught breaking said law. Almost all who risked it paid the ultimate price. The fingers in contact with the glass curled into a fist. “I wish I knew, Chris. If this dream-walker isn’t one of the Blood, then they are in possession of one of the strongest mage-born talents I have ever sensed.” “Lovely.” Chris muttered the word and blew her bangs out of her eyes. Given Xan’s history, they were probably at the end of the conversation. “Anything else you’re willing to share?” “No. I may know much of the hidden things in the world, but not all. If I learn of something which may be of use, without actively becoming involved, I will inform you.” The ancient glanced toward the security checkpoint, signaling the end of the conversation. “Well, thanks.” Thanks for almost nothing, Chris thought. Sticking her hands in her back pockets, she kicked the toe of her left boot against the floor. “Oh, before I forget?” A light touch brushed against her waist. Head cocked to the side, Chris glanced at Xanthea. “I don’t usually offer advice, but I will this time. Take assistance wherever you can get it. The situation is such that you cannot afford to be choosy about whom you work with. As the proverb states, ‘The enemy of your enemy is your friend’.” Before Chris could even begin to think of a response to the statement, Xan turned and strode away, robes swirling softly around her ankles. The crowded line waiting at security melted away to allow the woman passage. She watched the TSA agent on duty blanch and give Xan only the most cursory study before waving her through the scanner that led to the gates. Xan might not technically be a seer, but she was never wrong in her predictions. Rubbing her newly throbbing temples, Chris slumped. “Why me? Why are they all coming to me?” Since the universe didn’t see fit to answer, she slunk toward the exit to retrieve her truck. So much for her faint hope that she could go exercise her horses. If the murders dragged Xan out of Egypt, Chris couldn’t afford playtime before starting on her assignment. And maybe do a quick search on the internet to see if she could ferret out

just why Xan was interested in that hideous amethyst. The woman never even wore jewelry. **** By the time Chris pulled into the quiet community she lived in, she didn’t have a headache any more. The soothing sounds of opera singer Robert Kinsale, the only musician she truly loved, worked their usual magic on her. Thanks to the airport detour, it was late, but not deadly late yet for someone halfway through their third century. The windows in her truck were tinted to the fullest extent legal for a member of the Blood, but she hadn’t gotten around to treating them like the windows at the airport. Too high a price tag. She pulled into the driveway of her townhouses. Back when the developers built the community, she had bought adjoining units and knocked out some of the connecting walls to get more space. One of these days, she intended to clean out the garages so she could park inside, rather than have to brave the daylight when she got in late like this. Taking a deep breath, she bolted for the front door, making a last-second detour to her mailbox. She’d been gone for several days. The trip only took fifteen seconds, but her skin turned red before she got the key turned and scooted inside. The tinting gave her some protection when inside the truck, but she’d really pushed her tolerances. She’d never come so close to her limits that she felt the needle-like pinpricks warning of imminent combustion. Only after closing the door did she remember her laptop, still tucked under the passenger seat of her truck. “Well damn.” Chris tossed her keys into the geode that doubled as a key bowl in the niche by the front door and turned to face the door that blocked her nemesis: the sunlight. Did she really need the computer before evening? Unfortunately she did. All the pictures of the murders were on it directly, rather than stored in the cloud. The matter was too sensitive to risk a chance hacking. Still trying to decide while she waited for her skin to fade to its normal pale peach instead of lobster red, she flipped through the stack of mail. The lot consisted of bills, including a reminder from the

Florida Bar to renew her registration and the ever-present “Attend our conference and get your CLE requirements filled” ads. Stupid junk mail. The emblem of the Bureau of Non-Human Affairs on the last envelope furrowed her brow into a scowl. What do they want? She paid her fees to gain access to the blood banks, and the Bureau should know better by now than to bug her about serving as a Council Rep. She ought to get something out of being involved in the foundation of the quasi-public entity. A whisper of sound caught her attention as she started to slit open the envelope. Her internal alarm went off. She paused, tilted her head to the side, listening. The expected noises filtered in. A fan ticked in her den; the a/c forced air through the ducts; and water flowed into the icemaker. All soft, all normal, but the alarm continued to jangle. Chris dropped the mail into the niche next to the geode and slid her right hand down to grab hold of the hilt of her silver and mahogany knife from her boot. She left its twin, mahogany and titanium, in the other holster untouched. The familiar hilt felt good in her grip, but she didn’t pull the weapon. It was probably just nerves left over from Xanthea’s odd visit. That might be the case, but she didn’t go back to her truck to retrieve her computer or continue opening mail. Instead, Chris bounced on the balls of her feet, thinking. She extended her senses to sweep the townhouse for any sign of intruders. Mage-born she could find. Most vampires and all dhampires would show up on such a sweep as well. Only vampires older than she, deliberately concealing their presence, and shifters could hide from her. Nothing pinged. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Something felt off, and she hadn’t survived this long by ignoring her instincts. Whoever the intruder was, they knew she was there. Trying to hide her movements was pointless. She edged down the hall, still feeling out the surrounding with her thoughts. The intruder might make a mistake, and she’d catch them. Nothing looked out of place in the kitchen. Rich cherry floors echoed softly at her tread as she left and headed for the den through the swinging door. At first glance, nothing looked wrong. The plasma screen mounted on the wall, dark brown overstuffed sectional with its

plumped cushions, and her stereo system all looked normal. That’s when she noticed the glistening silver ice bucket on the sideboard. A bottle of wine, a twenty year-old bottle of Riesling she’d paid almost a grand for, poked out of the top, and she saw ice filling it about three-quarters of the way. “Son of a were-bitch.” She stalked over to the bucket to study the half-empty bottle without letting her guard down. Only a few of her friends drank white wine, and they wouldn’t hunt down the good stuff. None of her close friends could hide from her either, since she was the oldest member of the Blood residing in the state. “I know you’re here. Might as well show yourself now.” No point wasting her time on a phone call to the police. Ditto for the Bureau. They’d be useless against her intruder. “Did it have to be the Riesling?” Phantom laughter touched her thoughts, and her stomach plummeted. Chris gritted her teeth. He wasn’t supposed to have shown up so soon. His arrival made a perfect end to the crappy night and morning. “I’m not playing games, damn it.” She plastered her back against the wall. Standard battle tactic for an experienced member of the Blood, the intruder remained in his mist form. Against the wall this way, he couldn’t pop in and stick a stake in her from behind. She knew the trick, used it frequently when she needed a quick kill shot. “I like games. This is fun. Can you find me before I pounce? Maybe I came to kill you this time.” Jordan MacNaught’s voice, a mix of English and Scottish, sounded like nails down a chalkboard to her. Cold sweat trickled down the side of her face with the high-pitched giggle that jangled in her head. He wanted to incite fear with that laugh, and it worked. Her heart slammed against her rib cage, but she managed to breathe normally. God, she hated the giggle; it brought back memories of the first time she’d heard the hideous noise, the night he buried her. Show no fear. Jordan fed off fear; it turned him on. She survived knowing him, intact save for the incident, because she didn’t give in to fear no matter what he did. He can’t kill me without serious consequences, she reminded herself firmly. “I talked with Stuffy Britches. They think you’re

involved with the murders. Killing me isn’t going to help you convince him otherwise.” She wasn’t above lying. Her visitor wasn’t a suspect, at least not for the powers-that-be, namely Anthony. And while Jordan’s old modus operandi matched the current victims, she agreed with Xanthea’s assessment that the plot was too wide-spread. “It would be fun.” He pouted like a child denied sweets because she wouldn’t play his game. She shrugged and assumed a casual pose, crossing one leg over the other. Her gaze flitted over the room, looking for any sign of his misty form. The only thing she picked up was the dark suit coat draped nonchalantly over the back of the widest piece of the sectional. “A few minutes or hours of torture. Sure, that might be fun for you. But if you kill me, I’d be gone, and you seem to like popping in from time to time.” Most of the time, the approach worked. One day it wouldn’t, and then she’d die. No answer, not even a giggle. Chris thudded her head against the wall behind her. “You can’t hide forever. Even Xan can only hide for twenty-nine minutes that way, and she’s a lot older than you.” Sharp pain swiped at her neck, fang-like. She put her hand to her throat to reassure herself the bite wasn’t real. No blood. Just a phantom touch. She would love to use telekinesis, but it was too risky. Those her age rarely had the strength to do it, and she didn’t need any avoidable attention focused on her. Teeth scraped down the side of her throat at the same moment ghostly fingers caressed her thigh, sending a shiver of a different sort zipping merrily through her. Damned dirty trick. Time to end this. “Why are you here?” God help her, she had to draw him out. He wanted to play. Until she went along, they couldn’t get down to business. “It’s been nine years, six months, and fourteen days, Chrissy. Why do you think I’m here?” She shuddered, drawing in a shaky breath. Like him, she knew to the day how long it had been since their paths last crossed. Tides and taxes were no more reliable than their need, the hunger, for one another. They’d definitely lengthened the time between their encounters in the past forty years, but she hadn’t been able to totally steer clear of the man. Chris hated needing him, even as she craved

his touch. But now was not the time. She moved away from the wall and let her guard down. Just enough. Prepared to take the first blow, she still saw stars when blunt force slammed the back of her head. She staggered, caught herself before she fell, and spun around with her second weapon drawn now. No sign of Jordan. Chris snarled. “I’m not afraid of you. Stop playing, and let’s get down to the real reason you’re here. I know it’s not just to annoy me.” “Play the game first. You know the rules: no weapons, and we play until one of us wins. Only then will we deal with why I’m here.” Life would be so much easier if he’d just die already. Or kill her. The universe “gifted” her with an attraction to a sociopath, thanks to weakness in her youth. Jordan thought fights that might turn deadly with the first spilled blood “fun”, and to make matters worse, he appeared to consider her a friend, or at the very least like a puppy in need of training. Ugh. The sooner she finished playing the scuffle out, the sooner they got down to business, and then she could get on with what she needed to do. She edged to the sideboard, and slowly set her knives down on top, though didn’t release her grip on the hilts. She wanted the rules established first. “Normal forfeit?” “Unless you care to make it really interesting and offer me your blood.” She needed to avoid that at all costs. He was far too old and would recognize irregularities in her taste. The forfeit sucked, especially with Anthony so close, up in Tampa. The last thing she needed was to get caught stepping out with Jordan. “You might lose.” “Unlikely.” Swallowing hard, she made herself release both knives and step away. No reason she had to fight to her best ability. Her competitive nature demanded victory, but the realist in her pointed out the slim chance of that. Better to let him win so they moved on. “Let’s go. Show yourself, you piece of crap.” The air in front of her swirled; mist heretofore unseen coalesced, and just like that, there he stood. Just a smidge taller than she, swimmer’s lean physique wrapped in a three-piece navy suit sans jacket, topped with an angel’s too-pretty face, the Bloody Baron

smiled pleasantly, thumbs hooked in his vest pockets. Blond hair, impeccably combed into place, brushed his forehead just above brilliant green eyes that could alternate between passion and ice in less than a blink. He smiled, showing his fangs. “Always a pleasure to see you, too, Chrissy.”

Chapter Two From VampiresForever.bnha.org – For vampires in the United States: There are many reasons to register your changed status when you join the Blood. First, we are required to do so as part of the 1947 Non-Human Rights and Responsibilities Act. Second, you can’t make withdrawals from the blood bank system if you aren’t registered. Our suggestion: to avoid paperwork, convert in Canada or Mexico, and you’ll save time and trees, too. Registering is much simpler when you’re foreign-converted.

Chris crossed her eyes at him. Damn, but he was delicious to look at in a suit. He looked even better wearing nothing, burn scars notwithstanding. “Whatever. C’mon, let’s get this over with.” Faster than even vampire eyes could follow, he leaped across the room. She just dodged the first blow, ducking down to rake fingernails extended to talons across his thigh, scoring rents in the fine wool of his pants. Blood scent immediately tainted the air. Brief sense of triumph at drawing first blood, and so quickly, vanished when his claws dug into her back. She hissed softly, spun and aimed a kick at his midsection. Graceful as a dancer, he spun to avoid contact, striking a second blow, this one ripping a hole in her shirt sleeve. Let him win, Chris. That thought grated even as she slowed her movements just a fraction when she made a fist and swung. He caught her hand in his and twisted, going for a break. Rather than let him snap her wrist, she turned into the twist, reaching out to grasp his vest in her other hand. She yanked her captured hand free just before he went sailing through the air to crash into the largest piece of her sectional, overturning it on contact. Wrist throbbing, she turned to warily watch him right himself. Normally, she’d be on top of him, but if she wanted to lose, she

couldn’t push too hard. Jordan leaped to his feet, absently smoothing his now-mussed hair back into place, and grinned. “You wouldn’t be trying to let me win, now would you?” Okay, too obvious. Chris shrugged. “Why would I do a stupid thing like that? Think I want to date you?” They moved at the same time, meeting with a crash in the middle of the den. Claws raked; fabric and flesh tore. The smell of blood saturated the air as wounds on both combatants dripped crimson. Judging the time right as he tripped her, Chris stumbled and fell to the ground. As she rolled to get up, albeit a hair slower than she might otherwise have done, he pounced, slamming his body atop hers, pinning her. Caught beneath him, Chris caught a glimpse of red around green in his eyes, sign of an impending blood rage, as he reared back. Jordan lunged at her throat, teeth closing on the sensitive skin. “I yield. Now get off.” Terror washed through her at the idea he might take her blood, but hard-won discipline kept her voice cold and steady. Breath hot on her neck, he paused, took a deep breath, and without moving back said, “You ever put forth such a piss-poor performance again in one of our little exercises, and I will rip your throat out.” He bit down hard enough to leave a bruise, though he didn’t break the skin. Try as she might, she couldn’t completely repress the shudder that wracked her body. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just fear, though there was a healthy dose of that. Vampires were quite sensitive to bites of any sort no matter the cause or intent, and she wasn’t exempt. He sat back , still kneeling over her, so she could see his face. The red was already gone from his eyes, and she wondered if, in her panic, she had imagined it. Who could possibly have that great control? The terror of rages came from their uncontrollable nature. She took a shaky breath and offered a tremulous smile. Denial wasn’t just a river in Egypt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jordan arched an eyebrow, questioning. “I think you do. I know how you fight, and you did better a century ago than you did just now. You wanted this over.” He kept her pinned, grip tightening

on her wrists until she was afraid the bones might snap. “No lies, Chrissy.” No point arguing. It might just push him into another fight, or worse, given the arousal that pressed into her belly. Their bouts always turned him on, and she reminded herself she didn’t like that. Glaring at him, ignoring the fact that she was more than a little turned on too, she scowled. “Get up, you shit. You won. It’s over.” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she thought he might not. Would that really be such a bad thing? At least they would handle their obligation, well ahead of schedule. And that upcoming issue was the only reason she felt any arousal. She didn’t go for the whole “me Tarzan, you Jane, me drag to cave now” malarkey. Not at all. Okay, maybe just a little. But not with him. That would be insanity itself. Finally, he stood in a single, fluid motion and held out his hand. Chris knocked it away, unwilling to chance any lingering contact until she got her hormones, which were absolutely not under any circumstances disappointed by his restraint, back under control. Her legs even supported her, despite the jelly that currently constituted her knees. “You never shift. Ever.” He frowned at her, clearly puzzled. “Why is that?” Her heart gave a heavy thump, and a new burst of adrenaline raced through her. Crap, oh crap. It was inevitable that he wonder, given she couldn’t entirely hide it when he scared the figurative shit out of her. Keeping her expression neutral, she shrugged. “You’re right. I don’t want to pay the additional forfeit.” If either shifted during their fights, the guilty party lost automatically. In her case, he got to drink her blood. She couldn’t take that chance, either because of the risk he might force a blood-bond or that he might realize she didn’t taste right. The idea of a blood-bond binding them together terrified her. The last thing she needed was a bigger tie to him. “The smell of your fear still saturates the air. Anyone else would have shifted and fled on instinct.” His breathing wasn’t steady, she noted with some small satisfaction. He was clearly not completely cool and collected either. That might or might not be a good thing.

Jordan asked again, “Why don’t you shift?” Show no fear. Unable to regulate her heart rate, Chris stepped forward and patted his cheek gently to initiate the physical contact necessary. She’d never tried this with another vampire, and it probably wouldn’t work; but she had to try to move him off topic. With a false lightness of spirit injected into her voice, she focused her will to influence him and released the necessary energy. “It’s not important why I didn’t shift, is it? The point is we have an agreement. I don’t shift; you don’t get my blood.” The mage-born spell shouldn’t work reliably on a vampire, but she saw the faint slackening in intensity in his eyes for just a fraction of a second. It worked. Relief washed through her, and her still-shaky knees almost gave out. The spell didn’t work reliably on other vampires. It wasn’t memory erasure, instead designed to “nudge” someone off a topic. “I will one day,” he said. “You won’t be able to help yourself. Run along, my dear, and we’ll talk once you’ve changed.” She hated the condescending tone. Especially when his clothes were almost as torn as hers. She hadn’t even put her full effort into the fight. It took control, but she kept her pace a leisurely stroll until she hit the stairwell. Then she bolted. **** Jordan watched the swish of her hips and oh-so-long legs, encased in ripped denim now, until she disappeared around the corner. He rested a hand on the wall, drew in a surprisingly shaky breath and closed his eyes to better focus and regain composure. Once more in control, he collected his abandoned wine glass with its sweet wine. A surprising find, such an old Riesling, to be sure. He scowled at sighting the slight tremor that sent ripples through the golden liquid. Ridiculous, the notion a base-born fledgling shook his control to such a great degree. He almost took her blood. Damn it all, the need still clamored. Honor didn’t stay his hand, or fangs, since he had none when it didn’t serve his purpose. No, she was a cipher he needed to solve, and until he did, he refused to take any chances at further connecting them. His suspicions about her were bad enough without more complications.

Jordan cracked his neck, disgusted with himself. It was the entire bloody Aristocrat debacle, naturally. A woman, no matter how lovely or enjoyable – and Chrissy was certainly both – could never by herself be responsible for his loss of composure. He simply couldn’t focus, with the very real possibility of murder charges in his future. Taking a moment to right the couch he’d bowled over, he settled onto its welcoming cushions. He heard water run overhead and contemplated the source. A shower? When it cut off, he shook his head. Just freshening up. Despite her not putting forth her best effort, subduing Chrissy had still been a battle. Did she really think he’d accept anything less than a top notch performance? After a long drink, he scowled. It should be simple to overcome her defenses. More than seven hundred years separated them. The difference made his strength and speed that much faster. She was too damned fast for two and a half centuries. Another question he wanted answered. Curiosity when it came to her, that’s all it was. Not weakness, which he certainly couldn’t afford to show. She would leap on any vulnerability she saw, real or imagined, and he’d end up with a stake to his nether regions a second time, or worse, straight to the heart where it would kill him. He continued to sip the wine, keeping his breathing slow and even. He might not technically need to breathe save for speech, but most members of the Blood never deprogrammed themselves from the automatic patterns of their human years. Jordan leaned back and absently smoothed a crease from his pant leg. The crease didn’t really matter. It lay next to a four-inch gaping rip from her claws. His skin showed only minor scratches, his vampire-healing already closing the wounds, so no more blood seeped. Fear still perfumed the air, mixed with just a hint of arousal, and further relaxed his perturbation. The fear never showed on her face, and almost never in her stance, but Chrissy was afraid of him, as she should be. She rose above it, and that was why he let her live. No, probably not, he admitted. Chrissy was passionate, full of a certain joie de vivre. Not even his recently dispatched wife Angel matched her. Angel had wanted only the so-called “monster” that

lurked beneath his veneer of civilization, demanding, dealing, and accepting pain as par for their course. Chrissy saw, he suspected, more than that in him, a rather flattering observation from someone who had every reason to want him dead. She didn’t cower before his darker side. Maybe, if he were right about her and what she was, he might have the opportunity to just be himself, something he’d not had since his conversion in the wretched “Holy Lands”. He had never trusted anyone with the truth. Someone with the same problem, same secret, on the other hand … A balanced approach was necessary, of course. No sense presenting his back for her stake. So few people, her the only woman, deserved to stay on the right side of the dirt. Yes, quite safe to say, he liked her. **** Chris dithered over what to wear, most unusual for her. She didn’t plan on going out for days, so she could enjoy her nicer wardrobe. But then, Señor Psycho was downstairs, and she needed to maintain her outside persona. Damn it, she needed to relax, and she couldn’t with him in the townhouse. She didn’t want anything revealing, but she also didn’t want him to think she cared one way or another how he reacted to what she wore. In the end, she went for sloppy casual. She pulled on a pair of acid-wash jeans, her boots, and an indigo-blue cotton tank-top with the words “People are dying to join us – VampiresForever.bnha.org” in gold lettering, a recent Christmas gift from her friend Donovan. About to return downstairs, she paused at the sight of her tousled hair tumbling down her back. That would never do. She hastily brushed it out and stuck it into a braid. Hair pulling might be a typical female tactic, but she wouldn’t put anything past Jordan if he wanted a second round. Unfortunately, putting her hair up revealed the livid bruise from his bite. It would fade in the next few hours though, thanks to quick healing as a member of the Blood. Never one for make-up, she sighed. A turtleneck would cover the damage, but not in August in south Florida, for God’s sake. She wasn’t crackbrained. The clock in her office dinged noon as she descended the stairs. Given his advanced years, she was stuck with Jordan until at least four or five in the afternoon. He was much more vulnerable to the sun than she.

She found him still in her den with his wine. He’d righted the furniture, and the implied courtesy in the gesture put her nerves back on edge. He could have simply chosen one of the other two pieces of the sectional. Chris grabbed the bottle of Riesling and took a hefty swig without benefit of a glass just to annoy him. It worked, as the muttered, “Philistine,” behind her bore out. She set the bottle down and turned to face him, careful to conceal her smirk. “So, now that we’ve knocked each other around, what else are you after?” He started to reply, but she cut him off, just in case. “Don’t talk about the year. I can read a calendar just as well as you. I won’t waste our time by saying it’s not going to happen. But, let me point out we have at least six months until we go, er, critical, as it were.” He grinned, the expression surprisingly boyish on his aristocratic features. She wondered just how old he’d been at the time of his conversion. Based on the smooth, unlined face, she guestimated he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, a few years older than her mortal age of twenty-two, at most. He was normally so serious that he wore the demeanor of a much older man, which wasn’t surprising given his age topped the millennial mark. “There isn’t much in the way of culture in this ‘quaint’ little town, or at least for what passes as culture in the Colonies, is there?” Even knowing he wanted to get a rise out of her, she bristled at the insult to her beloved country. Damnable English, or as he always reminded her Scottish, arrogance. “We haven’t been ‘the Colonies’ in a very long time. We’ve been independent almost as long as we were the flippin’ Colonies, you asinine aristocrat. Get over it. England lost.” He rose and lazily sauntered across the room until he stood in front of her. Chris backed up, or tried to until the sidebar blocked further retreat. Jordan forestalled her intent to sidestep by the simple expedient of resting his hands on the bar, fingers overlapping hers, effectively caging her. Their thighs brushed. He was only a couple of inches taller, so that didn’t leave much room between them. And man, oh man, no matter their earlier brouhaha, he felt good against her. “You didn’t answer the question, my dear.” She recognized the attempt to dominate her physically, crowding her space. Recognizing the nature of the beast didn’t make

it any easier to ignore said beast. Heat pooled in her stomach and lower. Damn, damn, damn. Still six months. Temptation incarnate, no denying that. Pity about the whole psychotic killer thing. She might have, in some wild drunken stupor, entertained thoughts of experimenting with the whole kink thing that always seemed to linger in the back of her thoughts when he was around. But no one in their right mind would trust a known psycho. “Chrissy?” The soft question yanked her out of a quick and surprisingly erotic explicit daydream that involved her, a pair of handcuffs, and him. Unfortunately, he wasn’t wearing the cuffs. Clearing her throat, she blinked at him. “Huh, what? I, ah, my mind wandered.” Amusement lit his face. For a moment, she wondered if she had dropped her mental shields. All telepaths developed the blocks to protect their thoughts. He couldn’t possibly know exactly what had just crossed her mind, could he? Jordan chuckled, trailing a finger along her collarbone. It opened an avenue for retreat, but she couldn’t convince her legs to move yet. “I asked you to confirm there isn’t much here in this little town for culture.” “Meh, the Barbara B has theater most of the time.” “I thought as much. I’ve already obtained opera tickets for us in Tampa.” Tickets? Oh, right. She lost the fight. He never wasted time in locking in a date afterward. “You’ll appreciate my choice.” Not likely. She didn’t like opera. Just Kinsale, and he had only released a couple of recordings in the ‘40s, never performed publically. She sighed, annoyed at Jordan’s assumption. “I might have won.” “Unlikely. Pay up, Chrissy. Go with me.” Dee and Anthony would cut her dead if they found out. Thoughts of Anthony snapped her out of the haze proximity to Jordan put her in, and she shook her head. She needed to focus on the Aristocrats. “I, um, can’t. I’ve got something I’m working on for Stuffy Britches.” He tsked and brushed a kiss over her cheek. “It shouldn’t be objectionable to you any longer. I’m not married now. You know what happened in London, yes?”

As easily as that, he dismissed his wife’s hideous murder, part of the same attack that, according to the pictures she’d seen hours earlier in Tampa, had left him with a series of scars across his torso. Did he really think his marriage had been the only thing keeping her from dating him? Granted, it was a fairly substantial argument against the notion, but it was dwarfed by the attack he’d once made against Dee. Chris nodded and slid sideways, finally taking advantage of the gap, escaping to reach the recliner portion of the sectional. No more being trapped, where either claustrophobia or lust would get her. Glass clinked against glass. “I presume the old man asked you to ascertain whether or not the formula that rendered me somewhat less than my normal self was stolen from SRI? He said he would, when he came to London three weeks ago.” The question caught her off guard, and she stared over at him. He didn’t look in her direction, focused on filling a second glass with wine. It wasn’t the fact that he so blasély blew off having temporarily lost his vampiric abilities. Those were obviously back since he’d been able to turn to mist and communicate telepathically. He shouldn’t know about Anthony’s request at all. Her internal alarm went off again. “Ex, excuse me. Why would you think that?” “It’s not so much to ask of you, the woman who routinely monitors the Bureau’s system, to ascertain what information they might be gathering on us that we don’t know about, or the one who created the Council’s website, now is it?” Oh shit. Only Anthony, and the other members of the Circle knew about her work for them. At least the part about the Bureau. She didn’t hide her part in creating and maintaining the VampiresForever website. That left her with a sinking feeling in her gut. “How, uh …?” Jordan smiled and held out one of the two glasses. “You mean to say, in all this time, you never put the pieces together?” Rather than take the glass, she groaned and slumped in her seat. This left Stuffy Britches asking her for a favor in the dust. She should have seen it. Jordan was one of the oldest vampires around, and the Circle generally recruited members based on age. She tried to forestall the inevitable. “Don’t say it. Just shut up, and don’t say it.” “I’ve been a—”

“I’m warning you, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” He was so going to say it. And if that proved to be the case, screwed didn’t begin to cover her position. When Stuffy Britches had asked her to help with answering the SRI question, he had asked as a friend, without invoking his position with the Circle. He also took no for an answer, though she never said no to him. Jordan wouldn’t. Chris closed her eyes and braced herself as he drew in a breath to complete the statement. “Member of the Circle since before we met.” She thudded her head against the back of her chair and opened her eyes to glower up at him. He gave her a beatific smile as she slapped her forehead in the classic “doh” mode. “I’m fucked.” He tapped the glasses together lightly, held one up to her in toast and rocked up on his toes. With an insufferable grin, he said, “Not yet, Chrissy, but you will be. I guarantee it.”

Chapter Three From Magic 201: Handout for Discussion Binding Curses: Never invoke one without having the particulars written down in detail, and have an attorney or competent curse-mage review the details, so you know precisely what you’re agreeing to. If a condition of the curse is breached, body boils and eyes leaking blood will be the least of the breaching party’s problems. These curses are not for the faint of heart. Once sealed, a binding curse cannot be cancelled or revoked. The aforementioned penalties will take place if any of the conditions are not met. See page 498 in the course book.

“I’d say ‘kill me now’, but you might take me upon it.” Chris muttered the statement under her breath, knowing he’d hear. Low and warm, Jordan’s laugh alternatively chafed and soothed her upset. “And let you off the hook so easily? I don’t think so. Have a drink and listen.” This time when he offered the Riesling, she took it. It didn’t help since, much as she wanted a drink right then, she couldn’t force wine down. She’d choke on the sweetness. “I’ve noticed that you tend to do things with a bit less fuss if one approaches you in such a way that you feel it’s for the so-called ‘greater good’. Harbor no illusions. You will assist me. However, I’d much prefer you willing, rather than need to break you to the point where you cease your incessant arguing. As we’re pressed for time, I couldn’t enjoy the process as much.” Goose bumps ran down her arms. It never ceased to amaze her how he could be so dismissive of torture. Chris gulped half her wine to wet her abruptly parched throat. “Talking about wanting to torture me doesn’t help your cause.”

“Just reminding you what I’m capable of.” He gracefully retook his seat on the sectional, crossed one leg over the other and sipped from his own glass. Ever the polished and proper British gentleman, if one didn’t take into account the ripped suit. “Like I could forget.” She needed stronger liquid fortification than wine to listen to this. Chris felt his gaze on her as she pushed up and returned to the sideboard. She took care to keep her movements unaffected though his scrunity left her acutely uncomfortable. “Go ahead. I’m listening.” “I’m willing to trade for your help. The little whore in Tampa means a great deal to you, doesn’t she?” She stilled, hand wrapped round the neck of a tequila bottle. He only referred to one woman when he used that moniker: Dara MacKechnie. “Anthony will kill you if you go near her.” “He might not always be around. As we’ve seen in recent weeks, there are some very powerful individuals hunting the Blood right now. Anthony is the only person who keeps me from sending her to the second death. What I’m offering would put her off limits to me permanently.” Puzzled, she yanked the bottle out and returned to her seat. She’d been with Dee, the “little whore,” longer than she’d known Jordan, protecting the younger vampire from a sometimes-nasty world. Initially, she’d done it as a favor to Anthony, but later she kept at it because she genuinely liked Dee. “Go on.” “You were adopted by mage-born parents, both of them psymages if I remember the gossip correctly.” Chris studied her bottle of tequila intently. That little fiction kept her head on her shoulders, so she’d deny blood relations with her parents until she met the final death if she had to. She nodded, continuing her perusal of the familiar tequila label. Despite the laws, she had gone out of her way to become a vampire. Anthony had had a shit-fit when he found out, but then worked with her to stifle suspicion that she might actually be mageborn herself, rather than human. Thankfully, her gifts had never emerged during her human years. When her gifts had surfaced, in London after the incident, they’d been in the psy-category, so her aura never looked anything other than it should. “Have you heard of binding curses?”

Diverting her attention from the bottle to the man across the room, she nodded again, more slowly this time. No harm in admitting to knowledge of mage-born ways. Everyone knew about her parents. Her Bureau database entry included the information. “I’m willing to bind myself in such a curse with you. If you help me track down the ones who killed my wife, I will never go near Athdara again. She will be safe from me and my agents.” The tequila burned as it dribbled down her throat. The idea made for a great Christmas gift. Still, she didn’t want to agree too fast. She didn’t trust his motives. “You’ll go back to London, or at least go away, if I agree?” “Now how are you supposed to help me track them if I’m in London and you’re here?” Good point. Of course, she’d already agreed to get involved in the hunt, at Anthony’s request. Xan’s earlier words, work with anyone you have to, echoed through her head. Jordan certainly qualified as “anyone”. “As it happens, I’m in the process of relocating anyway.” She straightened in her seat. “Eh?” “To Miami. My company is moving its headquarters to the States. My CFO believes the tax breaks here are better for Celtic.” Oh dear God above. Why don’t you stay in England where you belong? They did much better with an ocean between them. For him to move Celtic Designs, his jewelry company, meant he was quite serious about relocating. Lucky her. “Ugh. I want more than Dee. I want you to stay away from me, too. No more threats, no more anything.” Not likely to happen, of course. Not when it seemed they couldn’t go more than ten years without tangling the sheets. What a mess. She shuddered, remembering the one time they had attempted to ignore the addiction. He lifted his eyebrows. “Until we find a way around our problem, that isn’t an option. Nor am I so inclined.” She bit her inner lip with one of her fangs. Blood welled, and she swallowed before trying again. “Then, if I agree to help you, let’s just agree that other than our ten-year nightmare—” Jordan cut her off mid-statement. “That’s insulting to both of us. Neither of us walk away unsatisfied afterward.”

Yeah, she found her addiction to the sociopath fantastic. One of these days, he’d snap and try to bury her again. She studiously ignored the little voice whispering, The thrill of potential danger reminds you you’re alive. Damn that voice. “You get my point.” His green eyes glinting in the lamplight, Jordan smiled. “I do. What I hear is that you’re trying to come up with a price for your assistance. You’re amenable to helping me, provided I find and meet that price.” “I’m not taking money from you.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “If I promise to never kill you, you do know that will take half the fun out of our liaisons. You like the illicit and potentially deadly aspect.” “I think I can live with the loss,” she said dryly. No matter he echoed her earlier thoughts. “There’s something very appealing about not having to worry about you sticking a stake in me at any given moment – again.” “Really? Are you sure?” “Pretty damned sure.” She took another swig of her tequila to emphasize the statement. Jordan bobbed his head in acknowledgment, eyes closing briefly in thought. “Allow me to rephrase. You find it attractive that you have very little control over me, unlike with the old man. I’m not the sort to fall prey to eyelash batting or other flirtation.” Chris cringed at the notion of flirting with Anthony. She still hadn’t recovered from walking in on him doing the dirty with Dee just ten hours earlier. Yikes. Jordan had a point about the control thing. She needed it, had ever since the incident, and tended to surround herself with those who didn’t protest her steamroller tactics, especially men. She didn’t like weak men in general, but she definitely trended toward beta males for sex. That was the reason she and Donovan had never gotten any further in a relationship than they had. While he might be sweet and unassuming outside the bedroom, inside was a whole different story. Bedding a beta who let her maintain control meant she was a lot less likely to end up staked or buried. Unfortunately, that led to an appalling amount of predictability. Whatever else he might be, Jordan wasn’t predictable and he certainly wasn’t a beta.

“You will never have the same control with me that you have with your other male playmates. That adds a particular, ah, zest to our interactions. I won’t remove that. We both like the outcome too much.” Her cheeks heated as she returned her attention to the tequila bottle. Her earlier fantasy came to mind, and she swallowed. Her mind kept going down the wrong track. A tumbler appeared in her field of vision, and Chris blinked, puzzled as Jordan loomed over her. She hadn’t heard him get up. “What am I supposed to do with that?” “Use it, rather than drinking from the bottle. You might be an American, but you don’t have to act a barbarian.” “You can set the rules when we’re in your home. This is my house and my drink.” She wouldn’t drink anything he offered her anyway, having learned the hard way he didn’t hesitate to drug unsuspecting young vampires. He sighed and flounced back to the couch, lower lip jutting out with the semblance of a pout as he flopped down. The tumbler slid from his hand to roll along the cushions. “You have no refinement, Chrissy.” She lifted the bottle in a mock toast and took another hefty swig to drive her point home. “So you and Stuffy Britches tell me.” “May we get back to the matter at hand?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. Chris shrugged and set the bottle aside so she could slouch down in her chair. “Hey, you changed the topic, demanding I use a glass.” Jordan huffed and glared at her. She smiled back sweetly. “Name your price.” “Dee, safe, as you promised. I also want fair warning if you ever decide you get tired of ‘playing with me’.” She leaned forward, levity aside now that she knew what she wanted. It might not remove all risk, but it gave her a chance to survive. It needed to be specific though, or he’d weasel out. “Before you come hunting me, you will call, email, or somehow notify me about your intentions, and you must have confirmation of my knowledge of the same. No leaving a voice-mail saying, ‘I’m on the way to kill you.’ I might not get said message until you’re here, ready and able to stake me.”

“That’s quite a concession, and worth far more than just than Athdara’s life.” He rubbed the back of his neck while he considered, eyes distant. His look sharpened, and he smiled again. Her stomach sank. “I’ll agree to give you a twenty-four hour head start. In exchange, you go ‘all in’ on the Aristocrat hunt.” She hoped he didn’t he mean the term the way she meant it when playing Texas Hold ‘Em. “Explain.” “For the price of leaving Athdara alone, I want your involvement in finding the five who killed Angel and attacked me. For your requested warning, you throw all your considerable energies and resources into hunting down the group now calling themselves the Aristocrats until every last one, including their leaders, are captured and/or destroyed.” Damn. A small portion of her soul shriveled under the notion of working with Jordan for an extended period. A much larger portion of her hormones leaped up and did the Lambada. “I want the same zeal with which you went after my Aristocrats in Europe. Further, you will not be working for the Council, Circle, or the old man. You will work for, with, and report solely to me. If the human government becomes aware of our situation before a solution has been found, Anthony intends to work with them. I do not intend to, and will not be constrained by human law. It’s my legacy these vermin contaminate with every attack they make.” “You’re on crack.” Or the equivalent. Answer to Jordan MacNaught? Hell, no. “Look at it from my view, Chrissy—” “Chris. My name is Chris!” She couldn’t listen to that name again without protest. The nickname had almost been cute before she knew what he was; now, it just sickened her. He waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Look at it from my point of view. With knowledge of my intent, the very resources I hope to utilize hunting the Aristocrats turn against me. What should be a quick little errand becomes a major undertaking. In exchange for such effort, I want something equal in return. Is it really so much to ask, given the relative security?” “Yes. When it’s my life, it is.” Finishing his wine, he moved a coaster closer to the side of the end table and set the glass aside. When he looked in her direction

again, he looked all too confident. “Reject my offer then. All I am invested in obtaining is your assistance with the ones who killed Angel. I consider Athdara a fair trade. You asked me for more. You need to decide whether the price I set is one you’re willing to meet.” Chris crossed her eyes in disgust. “Oh puh-lease. I know as well as anyone how little Angel meant to you. You don’t give a damn about anyone other than yourself, least of all a pathetic, weak-willed woman.” He stiffened in his seat as she invoked his wife’s name, but she was too pissed to take heed quite yet. “For God’s sake, you sure as hell weren’t faithful to her.” “I suggest,” he said between clenched teeth, “that you stop talking along this particular bent, Christine. My wife was twice your age, and I’d known her since she was eight. I might also point out that you’re hardly one to be casting infidelity stones, given your disregard for whomever you might have been with over the years when it came to our mutual entertainment.” Her temper flared, further prodded with the taunt about her cheating. She’d tried to ignore the pull between them, she really had, but something about Jordan just got under her skin. The fact that he actually seemed genuinely dismayed at Angel’s death surprised her, given his general disregard for other people. Biting down on the retort she wanted to spew, which probably would have ended with something derogatory regarding his antecedents, Chris considered the advantages to the bargain. Dee’s safety – awesome. Advance warning, pretty good considering the head start. That only left minor details. “I’m not going to be at your beck and call. I have a life and a business to run.” “In this day and age, you can monitor your clubs from anywhere. Your ongoing work on the Circle’s behalf made it so we are quite aware of your personal goings-on. Your nightclubs, save the one up in Jacksonville that you are in the process of building, require very little from you these days.” Hopefully they didn’t know all her little secrets. Considering he hadn’t executed her before now, she reasoned her main secret was still just that. She should just turn him down, but the promise of a warning, some safety against a deadly attack, just spoke too strongly for her when she lived with an execution-worthy secret. “I have a life. Put a time limit on this.”

“What life?” Now that’s just cold. I have a life. Chris fidgeted in her seat. She did. Just because it didn’t involve a lot of people didn’t make it any less of a life. “You don’t currently have a significant other and haven’t in quite some time, preferring instead to utilize a, ah, what is the term these days? Friend with benefits? You only have a handful of friends in the first place, two of whom are already involved.” Jordan plucked up his suit coat and retrieved a standard size envelope. “In anticipation of your protest, I brought that as evidence that I have made it my business to know every little detail about you available.” He held the envelope out to her. Snatching it, she yanked out the thick sheaf of papers and scanned them. The pages broke down almost every appointment and major activity of hers for the past two weeks. Chris stared at the floor, fumbling for the tequila bottle until the shock wore off. “If, ah, if you can get this sort of detail on me, without my being aware of your snitches, what the hell do you need me for?” “It’s easy to track one person, when you know where to begin. We don’t have names, faces, or even a starting locale, beyond London and now here in Florida, for anyone involved. I’ve made my final offer. Take it, or leave it.” Abandoning the bottle, she rested her face in her hands. She could turn it down, turn down the protection she’d sought for two hundred years on Dee’s behalf, but then what sort of friend would she be? Especially given she kept screwing the bastard responsible for hurting Dee so badly. The curse should keep him honest. Even a pretty boy like him couldn’t pull off oozing boils with any panache. Without looking up, she nodded. “Fine. I want all the details in writing.” “Fair enough.” The earlier danger over Angel seemed to have passed. He paused, and then snapped his fingers. “Oh, one final thing.” Chris did look up then, wary at the abrupt energy that flowed from him. “What’s that?” “One caveat with respect to Athdara. I’ll leave her be only until such time as she might attack me. I won’t tolerate potshots.

People don’t do that to me because they know they won’t get away with it.” Hardly an unreasonable request. She couldn’t think of an ulterior motive. Only a seer, or Xanthea it seemed, could see the future. “An unprovoked attack. You can’t taunt her into it.” “Of course not,” he said with the same angelic smile he’d given her earlier. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He agreed far too fast. Shit, there must be an angle, and she couldn’t see it. Still, what could she do other than say “no”? “No” benefited no one. Besides, she still intended to be involved. Why not get paid twice for doing the same job, between this deal and the fee Anthony promised her? “I know a mage-born who can do the curse.” “Unnecessary. I obtained the services of a curse-mage in London.” He dipped into his coat again and withdrew a silver dollarsized disc. “From what he told me, we need to draw up the agreement, place this at the bottom where we normally sign. We add my blood, your blood, and the vial of his that he sent along with me to activate the spell.” That sounded right, based on reading about the curse many years ago. “Am I really that predictable?” “You’ve always defended Athdara quite fiercely.” Jordan rubbed the back of his hand over his left check absently, perhaps soothing away the phantom memory of the punch she landed the night she’d found out what he had done to Dee. “Even when you could retreat and let someone else deal with her.” Chris gulped the last of her tequila and tucked the empty bottle behind the sectional to recycle later. “Why do you hate her? She won’t tell me.” He smiled and stretched his arms over his head. “That, my dear, is a tale that doesn’t concern you. Who knows, though? Mayhap I’ll be talkative at some point.” Grumbling, she pushed out of her chair. “No one tells me anything. You, Stuffy Britches, Dee. A big ol’ cluster of secrets, and I can’t drag them out of anyone.” Slipping the curse disc back into his coat pocket, Jordan brushed himself off. His hand caught on a rip across his thigh, and his lip curled in disgust. “Ah, the stories I could tell with the right motivation. I’ll change while you prepare the agreement.”

Halfway through the door to the hall leading to her office, Chris stopped. “I don’t have clothes for you.” “I put my things in one of your guest bedrooms.” Naturally. “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re leaving as soon as the sun gets low enough that you won’t combust.” “Why on earth would I do that? You have room enough for me. We’ll be working together for the foreseeable future.” She closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she could think straight again, she ticked points off on her fingers. “One, Dee drops in from time to time. Two, Anthony’s in Tampa for the foreseeable future, and he might drop in. The last thing I need is for them to find you here. Three, I’m not now, nor will I ever invite you to stay with me. Don’t you have a business to run?” That last didn’t hold water, of course. He was, at best, a figurehead on the Celtic marquee. “My design work can be done anywhere since I generally only work on specific commissions. I cleared my schedule after the attacks.” With no response and rather than have to deal with the situation, or him, any longer, Chris spun and stalked down to her main-floor office and slammed the door shut. Talk about motivation to find the Aristocrats, she thought viciously. **** Her temper, quick to flare and to calm, settled before her computer booted up. Typing up a draft of the contract she intended to put in front of Jordan took considerably longer. Her mind kept wandering. This wasn’t a cookie-cutter contract. A quick check at the clock as the draft printed showed four in the afternoon. Per the senses she kept sharp, given her unwelcome house guest, he had remained on the second floor the entire time. Chris gathered the last sheet off her printer and skimmed it one more time, looking for any obvious typos. She only found her law degree, obtained in the 60s during the civil rights movement, useful for business these days and took pride that she’d never set foot in a courtroom. Let the ambulance chasers be “for the people” as the commercials went. She kept her bar certifications current only because she didn’t want to retake the exam if she decided to practice as an attorney some day.

The smell of blood hit her in the face as she crested the top of the stairs. She breathed deeply, indulging in a momentary fantasy. Maybe he’d done her a favor and died, bleeding out. Unlikely, but a pleasant possibility. She’d happily clean up the mess. “Jordan?” “What?” So much for that slim hope. He sounded distracted, voice coming from the cracked open second door to her left. No big surprise, he’d taken over the second master suite. “Why do I smell blood?” “I got hungry.” “So help me God, if you ordered take-out and ate the delivery person ….” Half afraid of what she might find, she pushed open the door. Relief washed through her. He lay stretched out atop the black and white handcrafted quilt, studying a sketch. A glass rested on the bedside table, sheen of blood coating the inside. In the interim, he’d traded the ventilated suit for black pants and a crisp, button-down shirt. He glanced up. “There is no evidence that I have been involved in any illegalities, least of all murder, in decades. I’m not so lazy, nor careless, that I would do something like that. Certainly not whilst on holiday and a guest in your home.” An unwelcome guest. Typical Jordan, “no evidence”. From her vantage point, she could see the upper portion of his chest since he’d left the top couple of buttons down. Just enough to spy the faint burn scars, but no sign of other injuries. Nice chest, too, firm pecs with no trace of body hair, just like she liked in a man. “Fine, fine. I have a draft for you to look at.” “Excellent. I’ll take a look in a bit when I’m finished.” Despite telling herself she didn’t care, she craned her neck to get a better look at his drawing. Expecting a piece of jewelry, she instead saw her face. “What are you working on?” “This?” He turned it around for her to see clearly. He’d drawn her at a window, looking out over a drop-off. The view from the window reminded her of Dover. She’d visited the famed cliffs just once, during World War II, while waiting for Dee to get back from rescuing her niece Sarah from France. Jordan had caught up with her there.

“Since when do you sketch people?” “I like to draw, and you make an interesting subject. My art comes in many forms. Usually though, when I do portraiture, it comes out flat. I wanted to see if you would be different.” Weird. Better to just leave that alone and chart a wide course around it. “Whatever, man. Hurry to look over that. I want you out.” Jordan turned the sketchbook face down and sat up. “Didn’t we already discuss this? I’m staying here.” “You said you were. I can’t do what I do with someone standing over me. You’ve got the agreement, and we’ll sign when we’re ready. But ….” She trailed off, not sure how to finish that without sounding petulant. “But what? It really makes you uncomfortable to have me here?” “Yes!” “Why is that?” He cupped his chin in his hand and watched her. “You’re safe enough. Once everything’s signed and sealed, I can’t kill you without a warning period. I have no interest in doing so anyway.” Am I really sure vampires can’t have aneurysms? Chris rubbed her temples. Whether he could kill her or not was irrelevant. What if someone dropped by? How could she explain him being there? Everyone knew she despised him. Liar, you just don’t want to deal with the sex thing. “I ….” When she glanced over at him, a lean jungle predator laid out on her guest bed, the words stuck in her throat. He represented sex, chocolate and poison, all rolled into delicious packaging. She hated the fine line she walked when dealing with him. If she didn’t watch it, she’d get bit in the ass and not in the fun way either. The mischievous gleam in his eyes, since he knew she resented their connection, pushed her over the edge. They had both the time and location. “Oh screw it. This Aristocrat mess could take forever. I can’t have this hanging over my head for the next six months. Let’s get it over with.” She stalked over to the bed, and, catching his face between her hands, she kissed him, hard.

Chapter Four From Dean Newell, UNLV’s College of Mages, Tangled Talent Lecture Notes: In the modern world, I hope today’s topic will never affect any of you. In centuries past, not all mage-born were afforded the opportunities you are today. Some didn’t learn they were mage-born with gifts of their own until much later in life. In such cases, it is not unheard of for gifts to tangle. This is both a blessing (two mage-born whose gifts are tangled can usually cast much more powerful spells together) and a curse (if one dies, the other dies). Of course, those who find themselves tangled rarely complain once they recover from the shock. I’ve heard the sex is fantastic.

The familiar electricity of their encounters arced between them instantly at the kiss. Resting a knee against the mattress to give her better leverage, Chris nipped at his lower lip to gain entry. After half a second of startled unresponsiveness, Jordan moved, but not to return the kiss as she expected. He caught her wrists in his hands and reared back, maneuvering them so they both stood. “What the bloody hell are you doing, Chrissy?” She’d never, in the almost two hundred years she’d known him, seen that level of shock reflected in his leaf green eyes. As close as they were, she couldn’t mistake it for anything else. “I would think, Jordan, it’s pretty obvious if you think about it for, oh I don’t know, like a nanosecond.” He gawked, still holding her at bay. “I mean, well, obviously ….” Yanking out of his now-slackening grip, she rested her hands on her hips, waiting for him to recover. On the whole, despite the implied rejection of her advance, she enjoyed seeing him at a loss.

“Obviously. What’s the problem?” He blinked, coughed, and that quickly the bewilderment dissipated. “I didn’t expect you to jump on me. Pardon me for being taken aback when you change gears like that.” She blew her bangs out of her eyes with a puff, frustrated in more than one way. “I just wanted it done. We’ll get to the tipping point and jump in bed eventually. Why not do it now, get it over with, and forget about the whole thing until next time?” Anything to avoid it hanging over her head. If nothing else, he eased the restless hunger that haunted her. “Such a charming turn of phrase. My apologies for not changing gears quite so quickly. Advanced years, and all that.” “I call bullshit.” Annoyed he hadn’t gone along with the idea, along with a healthy dose of embarrassment, she reached for her inner bitch. Taunting him just asked for trouble, but if it got what she wanted, she’d take her bruises, literal and metaphorical. “You’re a man, mostly. I figured it’d be easy for you.” “Mostly?” Outraged, he stiffed. A quick glance downward ascertained no stiffening took place in the area she most wanted. Jordan crossed his arms and glared at her. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” Annoyed that she’d started a fight she couldn’t win, Chris threw her hands up in disgust and whirled to flounce out. “Just forget it. Go back to what you were doing.” He cut her exit short by grabbing the neck of her tank top and hauled her back. “Wait a tick.” Rather than risk ripping her shirt, she wrinkled her nose and stopped. So much for a quick escape. She stared longingly at the hallway through the door. “Moment’s passed. I’ve moved on.” “Next time, a little warning might be nice. You surprised me.” “There won’t be a next time. We’ll just wait and deal with it later. I better go do something else if I want rid of you.” For the millionth time, she wished she shifted like a normal member of the Blood. Of those races with access to shape-shifting abilities, only vampires kept their clothes when they shifted, and no one understood why. This time when she stepped away, he let go. Tugging her tank bank into place, she went to her room and shut the door. Between the

earlier scuffle, the flight from Vegas, and dealing with him, she needed a shower. **** Jordan closed his own door, brow furrowed in thought. Surprise indeed. If one of them approached the other about a tryst, it was always he unless their paths crossed by mistake. Then, occasionally, she came to him. Still, it presented him with an interesting option. He picked up the pages and leaned back against the door to read, though not with his full attention. One needed every advantage when dealing with the too-clever American, and she liked everything laid out in neat rows. He needed her trust if he wanted to get close enough to solve the mystery she represented. Keep her off guard, challenge her expectations, and in the end come out on top. Humming a few bars from Baron Scarpia’s musings about the lovely Tosca, Jordan began to plot. He needed to map out every avenue in advance to allow no retreat save where he wanted her to go, straight to him. The insistent thrum of water through the pipes, followed by faint splashing pulled his attention away from the document. He set the contract down and slipped out of his room. She hadn’t said he couldn’t watch, now had she? And perhaps take her up on the blatant offer. **** Chris closed her eyes, luxuriated in the drum of water pelting her body. After the last several hours, she needed this. The jangle of nerves from being near Jordan wouldn’t let up, and they weren’t the kind of nerves that she got from being afraid. She trailed her fingers lightly down her body, caressed her slick skin and sighed. Since he hadn’t seen fit to accept her invitation, she saw no reason not to take care of her own needs. It wouldn’t be as good as with a man, but oh well. Her mind drifted as her fingers found her cleft and started stroking. Slow, soft, insistent. To supplement the movement, she conjured up a pleasant daydream with Donovan on one of his rare visits when they both had the itch a few months ago. His hands covered hers as she slid the bar of soap over her belly. He pressed against her, rigid cock nudging against her butt, as he took over washing her. Her knees grew weak, and her breath

lodged in her throat. This would be just what the doctor ordered. His hands skimmed up over her breasts, one leaving an opalescent trail of bubbles, the other rubbing in the soap. His lips pressed to the curve of her shoulder. The soap slipped to the shower floor, forgotten when his fangs scraped over her throat. Chris moaned softly and leaned into him, ever wary of the potential for his taking her blood. She wouldn’t ever risk that. “You feel so good.” His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples to tight peaks. She reached back to cup him, curled her fingers around him to return the favor. His cock twitched in her hand, and he growled deep in his throat, grip tightening as he pressed her against the the cold tiles of the wall. A shiver ran through her, waking the senses that so rarely awoke, except when … Chris choked, eyes flying open. They hadn’t done that. Since when did she deviate from memories into sheer fantasy? And to let even a hint of Jordan in her mind? Compare pussy-cat Donovan with leopard Jordan? And yet the vision teased at her, beckoned her back. So close, so blasted close. If she left the shower now, she’d probably attack Jordan. “Come back,” a voice whispered sibilantly in her head, a wealth of promise buried in the words. What the harm, finishing it? she mused dreamily as her eyes drifted shut. Her fingers circled her clit, sending little shockwaves through her body as she rejoined the dream already in progress. Except she found her busy little subconscious had changed the surroundings. Elements from the past mixed with new. A sumptuously appointed hotel room. Dim oil lamps cast the area into deep shadow. Chris groaned softly, and when a man stepped out of the dark dressed only in dark pants, it didn’t surprise her to recognize Jordan instead of Donovan. They’d met in a room just like this in 1895. Stupid subconscious. His arms caught her against him, and he kissed her. Then most thoughts stopped altogether as his hand slid through a gap in the thin dressing robe of pale silk – totally modern – to caress her side. Her thighs parted just enough that his throbbing length pressed against her core where dampness gathered.

Jordan broke the kiss, but only to burn a trail of kisses along her jaw onto her neck while his free hand reached for the thin tie of her robe. “You said you’d be here days ago, Chrissy,” he murmured, nibbling on her earlobe. She gasped, running desperate fingers over his chest to toy with one rigid nipple and then the other. She tried to focus, answer his question as she had all those years ago. He’d summoned her, summoned, to England even though there’d been a good three years left before they needed to meet up, and she’d jumped at the chance. Anything to feel alive again. “Took a few weeks to—” He didn’t let her finish, just brought his lips over hers again and silenced her in the most basic way possible. Fingers teased over the band of material that comprised a garter belt until he ventured south to stroke her most aching flesh. “You had no right to demand I show up,” she sent. She tried again to battle the rising tide. No one else fostered the same heat as he did. Every fiber in her body protested, but she summoned will enough to catch his wrist and drag it away. Talk first, sex second. He lifted his head a mere fraction of an inch, eyes dark with heat as his gaze raked her face. His lips brushed hers. “And yet you came. Carp at me later.” Then he caught both of her wrists to pin her hands above her head before kissing her again. The sharp deviation from the true events almost brought her impending orgasm to a screeching halt. Not safe, never safe with him. He couldn’t be allowed control. Not of her, not ever. She tried to yank free, but his strength held her there, the restraint frightening and yet arousing. Jordan’s movements against her yearning flesh stopped as his thoughts touched hers, oddly calming. “Just a dream, Chrissy, just a dream. No harm, no foul.” Stupid subconscious, she thought again. But it raised a good point, she supposed, and decided to go with it. No harm, no foul indeed. Her eyes drifted shut to better enjoy the sensations cascading through her body. She whimpered when his fingers dipped into her cleft once more, found the nub, and stroked it. He wasn’t in a hurry it seemed, with firm, deliberate movements, designed to drive her mad with longing. “Please, oh please.”

“Soon,” he said against her throat, fangs scraping the sensitive skin there. She cried out in protest when he stopped stroking her and, uncaring of dignity in the dream, ground against his thigh. His pants had magically vanished. Gotta love dreams, she thought. Clothes poof in and out at will. The nagging unease about the scenario refused to dissipate, but Chris ignored the warning. Why listen when everything, including him, felt so good? He kept her there on edge, stroking, teasing, and tasting. Finally, just when she wanted to scream, he lifted her with a powerful arm to slide inside her in one, swift move. Her world exploded, and she convulsed around him. Chris just clung to enough of her presence of mind to keep from wailing as the pleasurable prickles blossomed into glorious pleasure. Shock after shock, her body convulsed with pleasure. Her teeth sank into her lower lip to stifle the pleasured scream. God forbid Jordan find her this way. She collapsed on the hard corner seat and panted. Her whole body tingled in the aftermath. That didn’t keep her from thudding her head against the tile wall, muttering to herself. “Well that wasn’t supposed to happen.” She never used Jordan in her private fantasies, at least not ones when she let the man take control. And she rarely did that, either. Even, or perhaps especially, Jordan knew she held the reins, and he let her. Given the general distrust stemming from the burial, he knew better. Hell, she tried to forget she was bouncing him while they actually did the deed. The last ripple of pleasure faded as she cleared her throat and hopped back to her feet. “Just a damned daydream, Chris, get over it. Jesus, forget it, quickly.” Forget it, or you might repeat it, the little voice in her head whispered. The next time it might not just be a dream. **** Despite the disturbing turn to her daydream, the shower centered her. It certainly ended her bout of the hornies. When she exited the frosted glass enclosure into the steam and gardenia-scented room, Chris could face the world, and Jordan, again. Cool marble tile

provided a sharp contrast against the balmy miasma blanketing her. She needed to get dressed and back to work. “It’s about time you got out,” Jordan said as he materialized, seated on the edge of the counter between the sink bowls. His legs dangled over the edge. “Son of a—” Chris yelped and leaped for her towel. He blinked slowly, warning, and she just caught herself before the last word slipped out. The last time she called him a son of a bitch, he buried her alive for disparaging his mother. For some reason, he objected to the pejorative, even though rumor had it he’d killed his mother at some point. She clutched at her towel like a shield. “What are you doing in here?” “To quote a certain someone, I should think that it’s fairly obvious. I wanted to talk to you.” He flashed a smile, fangs just barely showing, and leaned his weight back on his palms. “You know, Chrissy, if you’d just given me a bit longer, you wouldn’t have had to resort to alternative methods.” She might be claustrophobic, but right then she wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. Dear God. Her reflection turned a nice, brilliant, beet red, and she looked around for her bathrobe, finally finding it slung over the door that separated the toilet from the main portion of the room. “Mother of Lorminstra, you perverted jackanapes!” Jordan blinked again, the picture of innocence. “I am the perverted one? Which one of us just masturbated in the shower?” This absolutely can’t be happening. Please let this be a continuation of the weird-ass dream. Chris snatched her robe down and yanked it on, surreptitiously pinching her side. Pain flared and dissipated. Unfortunately, the bathroom invasion continued unabated. Damn, no dream. She belted the flimsy scrap of silk, not feeling much more secure than with the towel. “You could have waited five minutes.” “I did. Then, when you still didn’t emerge, I thought I’d wait in here.” Since the universe didn’t see fit to rescue her by sending a great bolt of lightning or a tsunami to kill her, she needed to brazen the situation out. And had her shower really taken that long? Good lord.

“What was so important you couldn’t wait? And while there’d better not be a next time, next time let me know you’re there. I could have finished...ah, I could have gotten, ah, ….” There really wasn’t a good way to end that statement, and she floundered. He didn’t seem inclined to rescue her either, judging by his grin. Asshole. The recently departed headache began squeezing her temples again. “I wouldn’t have enjoyed it half as much if I had interrupted, unless I joined in.” “Well, why didn’t you?” In her brief glimpse before she bent at the waist and flipped her hair over her head to begin toweling it dry, she got good visual confirmation that he definitely enjoyed the view. Must have been in mist form to see much, given the frosted glass that surrounded the shower. “And get my clothes wet? Don’t be absurd.” “A normal person would join me.” She wrung her hair out with more force than strictly necessary. “Now, explain what was so important you felt the need to become a Peeping Jordan, and then get out!” “I think you need to have another go in the shower, if you’re still this waspish.” Anthony would thank her if she killed him. “I’ll make this brief. You’re fond of gambling, aren’t you?” “What of it?” She continued to rub viciously with the towel, not sure she followed him yet. “I’m fond of lots of things.” “Earlier, you propositioned me.” Chris choked. “I did no such thing!” “Then what would you call it?” “Losing my mind.” Jordan chuckled. From her upside down position, she saw his legs stop swinging as he leaned forward. “I propose a bet. Just to make our time a little more interesting, although I doubt it will beat what I just saw.” She purposely ignored the latter half of his statement. Finished with her scalp she moved on to the longer portion of her hair. “If you win, I will walk the straight and narrow for, hmmm. Two decades should be impetus enough, even for you. While not admitting to having done anything that might get me in trouble under your country’s Rights and Responsibilities Act, I promise not to

indulge in any of my more exotic entertainments for that period. No murder, no torture, nothing of that nature.” Her eyes widened, and she stood, towel held loosely in her right hand. “I thought that might garner your exclusive attention.” Mouth dry, she swallowed hard. For that offer, he wanted something big in return. “And if I lose?” “I get your blood. More specifically, we forge a blood-bond.” No chance in hell. Though she wanted to say the words, she didn’t. If she rejected him out of hand without a good reason, he might wonder. Vampires commonly shared blood. It wasn’t safe for her to do, since most people would feel obligated to turn her over to the Circle for execution if they figured out what she was. She couldn’t dismiss the possibility he’d offered the bet to see how desperate she was to avoid sharing blood. In that case, she should say yes and win, no matter the cost. “Quite the stakes. What’s the bet?” “Earlier you proposed that we, ah, ‘get it over with’, I believe.” The just-faded heat surged back into her face. Delicacy, diplomacy, not her strong suits. “Why not make things more interesting than simply climbing into bed, or the shower, as the case may be?” He’d never let her live this afternoon down. Heaven help her. “Meaning what?” “Pardon my saying so, but I bet I can make you ask me for sex long before you can make me ….” Jordan trailed off, leaving the provocative statement dangling. An intriguing possibility, and a bet she should be able to win easily enough. He might be sex on a stick, but she didn’t have to take a bite out of him. He’d have to seduce her, which he’d never once tried in two centuries. She’d made the first move in London, and then later they’d just jumped into bed when their paths crossed. Despite the events of the past hour or so, she wasn’t generally highly sex-driven either. “I don’t think so.” “Afraid? That doesn’t sound like you.” Hah! It’d be a cold day in hell before she admitted to being afraid of anything, least of all him or some stupid challenge. “Other

than in one minor facet, we’re not even remotely compatible. I don’t like you.” Jordan shrugged, continuing to swing his legs in studied casualness. “You like certain parts of me just fine. You found me very charming once.” Maybe she should just get a permanent blush tattooed on her face, if he stuck around much longer. She shouldn’t blush like a stupid schoolgirl, yet once again, red suffused her cheeks according to the mirror. He would bring her long-ago idiocy up. “Yeah, before I knew you. You’re not at all charming any more.” Sliding off the counter, he shot her a lop-sided smile. “I can be. Despite what you seem to think, I don’t spend all my time plotting and scheming on new ways to kill, maim, and torture my way around the world. For the most part, I’m like anyone else, albeit with a few quirks that most people find objectionable. They just don’t know what they’re missing.” “I must be insane.” She stomped into her bedroom. The majority of her house looked like a showcase, thanks to the interior designer she hired. The two exceptions were her basement and bedroom. Posters of popular actors and movies covered two walls, a TV with X-box hooked up hung on one wall and magazines lay strewn about. Sheer curtains hung around three sides of her canopy bed, pink the room’s dominant color. “You’ll take the bet?” Jordan stepped into the doorway between the two rooms. “No. I’m insane for even listening to you.” She pulled open the top drawer of her dresser to search for clean underwear. The good stuff, not plain cotton. He couldn’t see under her clothes. As soon as she got rid of him, she’d get dressed. She could pretend to rummage for a long time, and the mirror atop the dresser let her keep him in sight. “You don’t think I can win, so why not say yes? Knowing you, which I do, you want to make the world a little safer. I’m not saying I still entertain myself in ways that are frowned upon by the human authorities, but if I were, this would be an excellent opportunity to rein me in for a bit. And, from your point of view, it’s an easy win.”

He dismissed killing so easily. The non-humans agreed to abide by human laws as part of the Rights and Responsibility Act, but that only counted if you got caught. Thanks to the Immunity Act of ’54, Jordan couldn’t be prosecuted for any crimes committed prior to its passage. He made his argument so logical. I know what he’s like. How hard could it be? And yet she remembered the weeks in London in 1820, when he’d been the perfect Society gentleman, charming and normal. Then again, anyone could pretend to be anything for a few hours here and there. She couldn’t trust him to keep his word. If she said yes to this bet, and let him stay …. Chris sighed internally. Just when did saying yes become okay? “So?” “With one condition.” “Hm?” “No more unprovoked sparring sessions.” She didn’t want to spend the next however long watching her back every moment. “Ask if you want to fight. Given how much you piss me off, I’ll probably say yes.” “Fair enough.” Their eyes met in the mirror as he left the doorway and moved to stand behind her. “I have one rule.” “Ugh.” If he didn’t shut up soon, she would scream. Still, since he could see her expressions just like she saw his, Chris kept her face neutral. He smelled good. Really freakin’ good, like the redwoods. “No cheating.” She spun about and glared at him with one hand on her hip. Oh, the very idea! “I’m not spending my time just to have someone, or something, else reap the benefits, and that includes your showerhead.” Ah, that kind of cheating. “Would you let the shower go already?” “But you blush so charmingly. How can I resist?” Jordan reached out and flicked a damp hank of hair off her shoulder. “I want an even playing field.” Despite the bolt of lust that rocketed through her when he slid her robe off her shoulder to stroke the skin beneath, Chris remained focused. If he only wanted one rule, fine by her. He didn’t stand a chance if cheating only meant going to other parties for satisfaction.

She smiled at him. “Fine, but the same goes for you. If I can’t utilize alternate sources, you can’t, um.” Ewww, I have to say it. Aloud. To Jordan. It should be easy, given what he walked in on, but still. “No self-relief for you either, bub. And if we break the rule, it’s an automatic loss.” “Naturally. Of course, you’ll have to trust my word that I’m not, just as I will with you. Or do you plan on being by my side twenty-four seven?” He sounded quite pleased with the notion. The warmth of his palm against her shoulder tempted her. She should be beyond lust right then, but her recent release provided no protection against his touch. The earlier daydream, the haunting notion of relinquishing control, flitted through her mind again. She steeled herself and flattened her hands against his chest to give a little shove. “It’s a deal. Go make your edits. I’ve work to do.” The hand on her shoulder anchored her to him, despite the push. His grip shifted, sliding beneath the heavy curtain of her hair to cup the back of her neck. Jordan murmured, “To seal the deal.” And then he kissed her. The kiss wasn’t gentle, but it was hot. And damn it all, the dream from the shower rose up in her mind’s eye, taunting her. What if he just shoved her back against the dresser and drove into her? Oh dear God, that so shouldn’t turn me on. “May the best man win,” he said with a grin and swaggered out. Chris slumped back against her dresser and took a deep breath. Best man, my ass. If a simple, okay incredible, kiss like that swept her normal caution aside and made her want him that fast, she needed to rely on more than just flirtation to win. She needed her gifts. **** Jordan scowled, studying the paragraph he’d written at the bottom of the agreement, trying to decide if it stated what he wanted it to. After the delicious fantasy he had prompted in the shower and the kiss in Chrissy’s bedroom, he knew two things beyond any doubt. Fact one: Chrissy was a blood-mage, as he’d suspected since 1870. Always nice to have ones’s suspicions confirmed. Fact two: he only knew she was a blood-mage because he was, as she might put it, totally screwed. His ability with dreams was spotty, at best, but the one in the bathroom had gone off with only the slightest resistance from her. Vampires were highly resistant to psy-

magic because of their innate telepathy; therefore she shouldn’t be that vulnerable to magic. Only one circumstance he knew of would create such vulnerability. Chrissy would never own up to being a blood-mage without significant prompting. He certainly couldn’t prove he knew what she was without admitting how he knew. He needed to be sure she couldn’t tell anyone before he let her in on that little secret. In a thousand years, he’d never told anyone what he was, never been willing to chance telling someone the truth. She wasn’t the only blood-mage in the state. Now he knew her secret. Every damned thing about her that bothered him made perfect sense once he plugged in the truth. Unfortunately, that did not bode well for him personally. Assuming he was right, which of course he was, she’d become both a vulnerability and an incredible asset he couldn’t waste. An asset he would do almost anything to procure. Chrissy being a blood-mage didn’t explain her advanced speed and strength, but he’d figure that out eventually. Jordan thumped one of the fluffy pillows and leaned back again to continue picking apart the agreement. Now, more than ever, he needed the boundaries set in stone. God help him, he’d tangled his gifts with the American’s. That didn’t bode well at all for him.

Chapter Five From ‘The Mage-Born for Dummies’ (Chapter 1, Sub-Classifications): The Psy-Magi: Seer: Able to see the future, either by spell or inherent flashes, and cast generalpurpose spells. Most inconvenient when the flash comes driving down the highway as one’s entire attention is focused on that flash, not the road. Empath: Able to give/take pain from others into themselves and can cast generalpurpose spells. Dream-Walker (obsolete): Able to invade the dreams of others, be they waking or sleeping dreams; some can also cast generalpurpose spells. No known dream-walkers have been born since the beginning of the 20th century, assumed to be a defunct branch of magic. Telepaths …

Chris took several long, deep breaths, focusing on the left monitor where a blinking cursor rested. The hair on her arms stood on end from the power she’d pulled in. This was the biggest spell she’d ever tried to cast. Doing so with Jordan so close just made it even more dangerous, and she couldn’t be more psyched to try. She felt alive for a change, using her gifts, instead of burying them. Anthony wanted her to find out if the formula used to render Jordan incapable of accessing his vampire talents was based off a formula developed by SRI, the research arm of his international conglomeration, Savage Enterprises. Stuffy Britches thought she was an infamous hacker, and she fostered the illusion to conceal how she actually got information. She combined magic with technology, which got her past more barriers that most would expect. Chris certainly couldn’t pull the

information from SRI’s databanks by normal channels. It’d probably been at least two years since the theft. The spell might not even work. She flexed her fingers, staring down at the enter key. All she had to do was hit it, release the pent-up energy, and then wait. Oh, and pray like hell nothing went wrong somewhere along the line to alert SRI’s IT team of her stealthy invasion of their systems and/or expose her little secret to the sociopath squatting in her guest room. “You look quite intent, Chrissy.” Given the words registered the same moment a gentle caress ran along her neck, just at the spot where he had bitten her earlier, Chris considered it an act of God that she didn’t release the captured power as a blast of electricity. That would destroy her entire network, and almost as bad, give Jordan a reason to execute her legitimately. She shrieked, leaped out of her chair and swung round to deck him out of instinct. He dodged just before the blow landed. Scrabbling back, she stared at him, arms squeezed round her middle to avoid any inadvertent contact. Power would leak out any second. Mage-born, even blood-magi, weren’t designed to hold power in for very long, and he’d feel it if she released it all at once. “Jesus, Jordan. What the hell?” He got an A for effort, trying to contain his laughter at her expense. His face went red from the strain. “I tried calling your name three times. Jumpy?” “Not at all.” Resting her hand on the wall, she let some of the energy flow into the cement, grounding herself. “I was just, ah, thinking. What are you doing down here?” “I finished my proposed revisions and grew curious. It’s been more than two hours since you retreated down here.” He jerked his chin toward the other basement room, her workout area. She loved her basement. They were rare in Florida given the lack of elevation over sea level. “Next time we spar, it should be in there. No furniture to wreck.” Chris just nodded. She hoped they wouldn’t spar for some time yet to come; she was tired of losing. “Let me see.” He held out the pages, and her heart sank at all the scribbles and strike-outs. Well, she’d deliberately put in a lot of crap in hopes of getting a few minor points in. Maybe he’d missed one or two.

Her phone vibrated on the desk, and she scooped it up, recognizing Donovan’s number. About time he got back to her. Hitting the “talk” button, she glared at Jordan. “Be quiet.” Into the phone, she said, “Yo, dude.” “Hey, Chris.” She’d left a voice mail for him earlier, needing to touch base regarding the bodies that had turned up outside his club, A’Jin’Cor, in Tampa. “Thanks for calling back.” “Sorry I missed your call. What’s up?” “Chrissy?” “I have to take this.” Focusing her attention on the phone, she hugged the papers close in her other arm. “I hear you stumbled across a few bodies the other night.” “Dara tell you? I figured she’d heard by now, given the Bureau took ‘em away.” She wanted to look around, see if maybe she could find something the Bureau agents missed. Unlikely, but then again she wouldn’t be in uniform, and the staff knew and trusted her, thanks to Donovan. She might get lucky. “Yeah. Stuffy Britches asked me to do a little poking around. You mind if I come up? The Circle sent someone, and they dropped in on me. Presumably they heard about Anthony’s request, and the individual didn’t want to duplicate efforts.” She had to make sure she didn’t blab about Anthony’s place with the Circle, much less Jordan’s. Everyone suspected Anthony was a member of the Circle, but only a select few actually knew he was, she and Dee chief among them. Chris glanced over at Jordan. “I’m going out for a few hours. You know what happened in Tampa, I assume?” Given Anthony knew, she assumed he had filled the rest of the Circle in on at least some of the details. “Naturally. It’s unimportant right now. We’re focusing on Angel’s killers.” “Given the deaths look like they’re connected, there might be something that can help your cause. Ever think of that?” He inclined his head. She headed up toward her bedroom, Jordan in her wake. Into the phone she said, “The rep’s probably going to come with me. He’s looking into some deaths overseas as well. Okay if we talk to some of your people?”

“If you have to. Victor helped me keep traffic away from the site until the Bureau showed up. He’s the only one who really knows what I found. We’re under orders to keep things on the QT here.” Thank God for small favors. Anthony wanted the murders kept under wraps so a panic didn’t start about someone resurrecting the old Aristocrat name. Jordan didn’t hesitate to follow her into her bedroom. Thanks to her inability to shift like a normal vampire, she’d have to drive. She’d used her last emergency outfit stored at Donovan’s a week ago, and she didn’t want to have to explain to Jordan why her clothes mysteriously changed between home and Tampa. “I’ll be there in a few hours. You be available to talk to the rep?” “Full moon’s next week. Shifters are already getting restless. But for the Circle I s’pose I better make m’self available.” “Thanks.” She glanced at Jordan, debating whether to warn Donovan ahead of time who the representative was. Donovan wasn’t a fan of the older vamp, having been involved in unburying her in London. Shaking her head in silent answer to her own question, she said, “See you when I get there.” She clicked the “off” button and set the phone aside. Jordan still loomed by the doorway, brows lifted in faint question. “You really don’t need to come. We haven’t invoked the curse yet. Maybe someone at the club saw something that’ll connect back to your attackers, and given the similarities in attack, it’s possible the killers here are involved somehow with the London group.” “Perhaps.” She skimmed through the pages to confirm he hadn’t crossed out what she needed to point out. “This is part of a pre-existing business arrangement, as you agreed I could maintain, provided it doesn’t distract from the bigger picture. It’s probably part of the bigger picture, so no problem, right?” Chris frowned, coming to the last page where his scrawl covered the bottom half. How did a fru-fru artist type end up with such lousy penmanship? Hell, my handwriting’s better than his. “What’s this?” “Read and see for yourself.” He settled on the edge of her bed, which didn’t help her state of mind. Thoughts of tangling the sheets

with him, of her earlier daydream in the shower, crashed back into her mind. With an effort, she reined in her sex drive. If, in the course of this Agreement either Party should become privy to certain facts which, if revealed to the general population (either human or non-human) could result in negative consequences such as, but not limited to, execution, arrest, or detainment, it is agreed that the knowledge shall not be reported to the authorities, but rather handled between the Parties in a mutually agreeable fashion. While she considered the ramifications of his addition, which sounded like it might cover her ass should he stumble across her mage-born secret, he said, “I tried to capture the same blah blah tone of the rest of the document. Did I put it aright?” “Umm, what were you trying to convey?” He cleared his throat. “Let’s be honest.” Oh yes, let’s. “We’re hunting some very nasty individuals. Over the course, I may choose to handle something in a way that others would not approve of. You might learn secrets that I keep from general consumption, and given your oft-expressed desire to see me either dead or rendered impotent, so to speak, I want to be certain you can’t use what you discover against me. In the spirit of fairness, I worded it so that you were protected as well, should I discover a secret of yours.” “Open book, MacNaught.” What a whopper. “Anything anyone wants to know about me is right out there in the open.” A trace of a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes flitted across his face. “Mm-hm. Perhaps we should activate the curse now, and move on.” “I don’t have time to update this. Donovan’s expecting me.” She didn’t want to tie herself to him for the long haul quite yet. She had one more addition to make. “Why bother reprinting it? If the changes meet with your approval, we can use it as is.” “It’s so, um, messy.” And unbreakable. The finality of being stuck in a contract with him chilled her to the bone. “I just thought that, well—” “You’re just delaying the inevitable.” Chris hissed irritably and flopped tummy first onto her bed, taking care to rest on the far side of the California king, as far from

him as she could be. His woodsy cologne rocked, and given the bet, she didn’t want to take any chances. “Give me ten minutes to read through, make sure you’re not sneaking anything nasty in on me.” “Should I change in the mean time? What sort of establishment is this club? My investigator didn’t include that sort of detail.” She eyed him, the pressed pants and button-down shirt. Very clean-cut. Add a sweater tied around his neck, and he’d look preppy. Moreover, if one didn’t know him, they might think him wet behind the ears. How did he suddenly convey such an air of innocence? Quite different from the presence he usually exuded. She giggled, picturing him in the midst of the crowd that frequented A’Jin’Cor. Then the thought of him being at the ‘Cor sank in, and she groaned. With a silent apology to Donovan, she lied. “It’s not, ah, not your style. Very goth, very grimey. Probably shouldn’t go.” “I wouldn’t fit in?” He sounded wounded at the possibility. All sorts frequented the club, humans and non-humans, fetishist and non-fetishist. She didn’t want him to get the wrong impression. What if he thought she liked that sort of nonsense? Earlier fantasy aside, she stayed wholesome and clean. “Not at all. Just stay here. I can handle things on my own.” He twisted about, coming to lie diagonally across her bed, and rested his chin on his folded arms, looking up at her until she dropped her gaze back to the printed page, quite uncomfortable with the intense scrutiny. Jordan inched forward, nipped at her earlobe, and said softly, “To borrow your charming colloquialism, I call bullshit.” The profanity sounded wrong, coming from him. She forced herself to stare at the pages rather than let him see that butterflies rampaged in her tummy. “Call it what you want. You won’t be welcome. Donovan’s not a fan of yours.” “I don’t need fans.” “Nothing I say’s going to convince you to stay here, is it?” “Whither thou goest, so, too, shall I go,” he said. Jordan kissed her cheek and climbed to his feet. “Finish reading, and by the time you get changed, I’ll be ready to leave.” **** Chris changed clothes, smoothing the blue-green skirt so it swirled about her knees. Looking frilly and feminine left her feeling acutely vulnerable. Even with the thigh holster for one of her knives

strapped to her leg, she was still uneasy. She didn’t like being too girly around MacNaught, bet notwithstanding. Besides, he wasn’t the type to go all gooey and weak just because she was in a dress. He was never weak. So she couldn’t afford to be either. She ran a finger under the Mandarin collar, trying to loosen the tight neck, and then yanked open her door. She’d woven a couple of matching ribbons through her hair, but left it down overall. “MacNaught, if you’re coming, it’s time to head out.” At her words, his door swung wide, and she sighed. As always, he looked pristine, having added a black vest and jacket to the shirt and pants from earlier. Why couldn’t she go for the big, bulky guys like Anthony? Then Jordan wouldn’t attract her at all. “I won’t be coming until after you, Chrissy.” He grinned and took the time to do a long, thorough appraisal of her. Dear God, there was that sense of humor she vaguely remembered from London. It caught her off guard. “I-I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” I want the psycho back. This Jordan’s almost likable. “Excellent. I can save it for another time, then.” Jordan closed the distance between them and smiled. “You look spectacular.” “Hrmph.” Chris tried to ignore the pleasure such a simple compliment gave. She was pretty, accepted that fact without hesitation. Hearing him acknowledge it, on the other hand was a very different story. He didn’t give idle compliments; at least he never had before. Best to just move on. “Hey, you want to invoke the curse? There’s nothing else I want to change. Might as well do it now, like you said.” Maybe since she hadn’t reprinted the agreement, he’d skip rereading and miss her insertion. Not that she wanted to hide the addition or anything, but he might object. Hell, he probably would. She suspected he didn’t intend to keep his word if he lost. “Of course.” Jordan gestured back toward his room. “Join me?” Reluctantly, she returned to the site of her earlier embarrassment and hovered just inside the doorway. He retrieved the disc from the dresser while she flipped through the contract to the last page to set it on top. “Let’s not get blood on the wood, please. My father built the dresser for me when I was a baby.”

He withdrew a thin, ornamental knife from his suitcase, tucked to the left of the dresser, and gave her an absent nod. She saw a series of acid-etched symbols along the blade. With a practiced move, he sliced the tip of his index finger without a wince and let blood drip atop the disc now waiting at the bottom of the page. A puff of amber smoke wafted upward. Per what she knew about this particular curse, it meant the spell was taking hold. The smoke sequence should progress from amber to gold, and finally black when they added in the curse-mage’s blood. He flipped the weapon to hold it by the blade and offered her the hilt. Drawing a deep breath, uneasy at finalizing the agreement, Chris took the weapon. Still reluctant to tie herself into the curse, she paused to read the symbols. Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him, eyes wide. “Whoa. This is from House Kerrich. Where did you find it?” Jordan stared at her, a strange light entering his green eyes. “You remember Kerrich?” Kerrich had once ruled over the mage-born, dying out early in the twelfth century from a variety of ailments. Rumor had it that someone had assassinated many of them. Kerrich’s power came from centuries of birthing a disproportionately high number of seers and dream-walkers. Chris crossed her eyes and braced herself against the brief flash of discomfort at pricking her finger. “Raised by mage-born, remember? I might not have the gifts, but they taught me like I did, thinking it might help me survive in our world since I knew about non-humans.” One quick jab and scarlet welled on her thumb. She rubbed the wounded digit on the disc. Gold smoke plumed up. So far, so good. Rather than let the scent linger, she licked the blood away and offered him the knife. He continued to stare at her, and the silence stretched out until she waved her hand in front of his eyes. “Hello? Do you have the caster’s blood?” Jordan shook his head as if to clear it and retrieved his weapon with an apologetic noise. “So sorry. I didn’t think anyone remembered the dead houses. I took it from someone I hunted several

centuries back. Spectacular engravings, aren’t they? Can you read them?” Just in time, she recognized what the symbols were and shook her head. Jesus, talk about almost outing myself. Only someone with mage-born blood could divine the meaning. “No, I can’t. Just the one for Kerrich itself. Next time, don’t stare at me while you think. It’s creepy.” The blade said, ‘Catriona Kerrich, Guardian of the Phase.’ Catriona Kerrich had been the wife of the last patriarch of the house. They’d had two sons. The elder, Malcolm, had died in the First Crusade, years after someone murdered the younger. “So sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You truly look lovely, my dear.” He made the offhand comment as he withdrew a tiny vial of blood and overturned it above the disc. A small ripple of energy flowed from the page as the disc melted into a blob, and Chris thought all her hair might stand on end. She sucked in a heavy breath, the tingle from the shockwave zipping through in her an oddly erotic fashion. “Holy crap.” Black smoke and sulfur stink filled the air above the page as he snickered. “Pleasurable, isn’t it?” “This isn’t your first binding curse?” He shook his head. “About six hundred years ago, I submitted to one. It didn’t end well for the other party, given they tried to betray me. I don’t suggest you make the same mistake. Shall we go?” “Yeah.” She scooted into her room and picked up her silver/mahogany knife to stick in its holster. She felt much more comfortable with one of her weapons at hand. “G’wan down to the truck. It’s unlocked.” He blinked. “You intend to drive? Why not fly? It’s simpler and probably almost as fast.” Not the way she drove. God, times like this she hated not being able to shift like a vampire. “I like to drive. Can’t carry much with me when I fly and you never know when a knife or computer might come in handy.” Please let him buy it. Jordan inclined his head, and she got the distinct impression he was skeptical. In the end, he simply said, “As you wish.” He waved her on ahead of him, and as she passed by, she heard him say

very quietly, “One begins to wonder if you’re hiding something, the way you won’t shift, Chrissy.” Her breath caught in her throat at the words, but she forced herself to keep moving, to ignore it. He couldn’t possibly know. She was still alive, after all, and he’d execute her in an instant if he found out.

Chapter Six From the Quick Reference Guide used in Psy-Magic 310 at FGCU: Aura Colors in Brief: Human: White Vampire: Black with bronze bands (deeper bronze, older vampire) Mage-Born: Depending on talent, range of blue to green (white until puberty/emergence of gift) Shifter: Depending on subspecies, range of red to orange

Two hours and some odd minutes later, Chris pulled into the only empty spot at A’Jin’Cor, marked “reserved”, which Donovan generally didn’t reserve for anyone in particular, just friends who might pop in. In that case, it was first-come, first-serve. At eight in the evening, it was still too early for people to be out partying en masse. Even so, a line fifteen or so deep already waited outside the popular club. Chris looked toward the door and recognized one of the bouncers on duty, Garrett. He usually looked impressive, big and bulky in his human form, though she knew from personal experience Garrett was pretty mild-mannered. She waved in his direction. He said something to the other bouncer, who started talking into his headset, and then headed over to them. Garrett shot Jordan a curious look, but smiled at her. “Hey there. Been a few weeks since you came this way.” “Yeah. Where’s Donovan?” Without waiting for a response, she slammed her door shut and headed for the club. Jordan didn’t say a word, surprising for him, and fell in behind them. The trip north had passed surprisingly well, discussing such normal topics as politics – they were both conservatives – and her Heaven’s Light nightclubs. He’d even razzed her a bit about the Kinsale CD she had in the player when the truck started up. Not surprising really, considering her opera issues whenever he wanted to take her to one.

“Probably at the bar. Victor’s running at full steam and barely keeping up. One of the girls called in sick.” The bear held open the door, and the familiar pounding base of Ghouls Rock Too poured out. “I’ll let him know you’re here, if you wanna head up to his apartment, rather than mixing.” “Thanks.” She felt her cheeks heat as Jordan studied the mix of patrons waiting in line to get in. Overall, they were pretty dull for the ‘Cor, thus far. Only one was naked. Luckily, the stairs to the second floor were just inside the second set of double doors to the club, and she bolted up them, forcing him into a jog to keep up. She didn’t intend to discuss the patronage of the club if she could help it. A rope blocked off the small second staircase to Donovan’s tiny one-bedroom apartment atop the club. She hopped over the insignificant barrier and headed up. As she pushed open the door, she heard footsteps behind them and recognized Donovan’s familiar tread. Good, get this show on the road. She turned as her friend cleared the doorway and saw the instant he recognized Jordan’s lanky frame. His hazel eyes widened, and he stared first at Jordan, and then at her. “That’s Jordan MacNaught, girl! You gone loco, hangin’ out with him?” “I didn’t ask him to show up, and I told him I could handle this investigation. But no, of course not. He had to see where the murders took place.” Hopefully that explanation would fob Donovan off. “Jaysus H. Christ, girl, why the hell would the Circle send him? After what he did to you in England, they should show some consideration! He’s probably involved, or knows who is!” He rested a hand on his trim hip. He and Jordan were about the same height, though he didn’t convey the same intensity or drive that the latter normally did. She’d thought the same thing when she first saw the victims. A quick review of Customs records had shown Jordan still in London. “It looks that way, but I believe him when he says—” Jordan coughed, drawing her attention away from the fastpaced telepathic conversation. “I’m sure the two of you are having a lovely tete-a-tete about my presence, but we do have something to accomplish, yes?” He glanced around the small apartment. Donovan kept it neat as a pin, no help from a housekeeper or anything, taking time every week to scrub the toilet and clean the baseboards. Browns

and grays dominated the décor. “Is this the one who found the bodies?” Chris leaped forward and caught Donovan’s arm as he growled deep in his throat. Very little actually set Donovan off, but Jordan was one of those rare things. Privately, she said, “Just answer his questions, and he’ll leave you alone. Go along with it. Remember, he has the ability, and no doubt authority, to kill us both, if he chooses.” Donovan took a visible breath, muscles in his arm tense under her touch. “Yeah. I found ‘em.” “Chrissy, question the staff while Mr. Tate shows me where he found the bodies.” “Man, I don’t got time for this.” When stressed, Donovan’s good diction went to crap. “Can’t this wait until I close up?” “The sooner you show me, the sooner I’ll depart. If we hope to find these cretins, we shouldn’t delay any longer.” “Whatever.” Donovan sighed gustily. “This way, c’mon.” He beckoned toward the door that led to the exterior stairs down to the alley. “Chris, watch your back out there. I got some odd customers that’ve been coming around lately.” The visitors must be really bizarre for him to comment. Before she could inquire further, he slipped through the door with Jordan right on his tail. Shrugging, Chris went through the other door and into the stairwell that led to the second floor of A’Jin’Cor. The smell hit her first, hundreds of bodies, some with the musk of the shifter races, myriad perfumes, pheromones to drive the unwary mad with lust, all coupled with a healthy dose of sex. In her rush to get Jordan out of the club area, she’d tuned it out. This time, she wasn’t so lucky. The smell of sex overpowered everything else on the second floor, thanks to the eight rooms up there that faced the narrow hall. Each housed a different theme, including six with creepy-assed set-ups. Sensitive ears, already beginning to overload from the music, picked up on grunts and groans. Just lovely, an orgy in Eight. She hastily emerged into the open area that encompassed the second-floor balcony. The area served as overflow for the tables scattered on the first floor. By the night of the full moon, there wouldn’t even be standing room in the club. Of course, not many would actually be standing.

Only shifters, and a few vamps issued special invitations, got through the doors on the three nights. The place turned into a wall-to-wall orgy, and if Donovan allowed humans in, there’d be casualties, of the deadly kind. Humans couldn’t take horny shifters, and the mage-born, unless they knew how to shape-shift, were almost as vulnerable. She leaned on the gleaming metal rail that kept the unwary, and drunk, from toppling onto the dance floor and studied the crowd. After a moment, she glanced around to be certain no one was watching and slowly relaxed her eyes. To see the fuzzy halos of their auras, she couldn’t focus on anything. Chris enjoyed aura-watching, though she couldn’t always indulge in it. It came part and parcel with being a psy-mage. If she couldn’t see her aura, she couldn’t alter it, which had been the first thing Xanthea taught her. Without that spell, any psy-mage could discover her blood-mage status. She never dared remove the protective spell, so she’d never seen her aura since it had changed from white to mage-born blue/green. Unfortunately, while Xan had taught her utilitarian spells, only another of her sort could fully teach her. She’d cobbled together what skills she had on her own. Resting an elbow on the railing, she looked for anything unusual in the crowd below. Over half were shifters, as Donovan warned her, with a smattering of humans. Heavy pockets of vampires and mage-born completed the ensemble. One aura in particular caught her attention, dark blue-green, indicating a psy-mage of some sort. Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, hue and one she didn’t remembering seeing before. Shades could vary, even within the sub-classifications of the mage-born, so it was impossible to know where a person’s talents lay just looking at their aura. Chris shook her head to help clear it as she reverted to normal vision to get a look at the bearer of the odd aura. “Wowser,” she breathed, catching sight of her quarry. “Holy crap, what the hell is a god like that doing on his own?” Taller than all the people around him, black hair framed his face. He might even be buffer than Anthony. His face – dear God, what a face, with broad forehead and high cheekbones. Even from such a distance, she made out full, sensual lips. She didn’t generally go for bodybuilders, but she might make an exception for that one. She appreciated men with all their different

looks and tastes, never shied away from a frolic when one appealed, assuming she wasn’t in a dedicated relationship, Jordan notwithstanding. This one actually, literally, made her mouth water with his leather pants and vest. Chris swallowed hard. Just then, the god stopped dancing and raised his gaze to hers across the busy club, completely ignoring the hussy of a were-bitch writhing against him. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Is there something I might do for you?” Any number of things came to mind, first and foremost a quicky in the alley behind the ‘Cor. Her toes curled in her shoes, nipples perking right to attention, at hearing the audible sex wrapped in Godiva chocolate that comprised his voice. She got it together enough to respond with something approximating her normal carefree tone. “Ah, sorry, no. I was just checking out …” He returned to his gyrations with the werewolf, turning in a circle, so she got to check out his awesome butt, firm and round, encased in skin-tight leather. “Your ass.” Her cheeks flamed as the thought slipped through. God above, she’d turned into a nymphomaniac in the past twenty-four hours. “I mean, ah, I was checking out the crowd, looking for a friend.” Yeah, no doubt he already thought her a moronic airhead on the make. “Sorry for, for staring.” Her hands slithered from the rail, and she backed into the shadows, palms pressed against her heated cheeks. Jordan might be gorgeous, painfully pretty even, but the tall, dark god with the odd aura left Jordan by the wayside. Her giggle as she tried to shake off the intense attraction to the tall stranger sounded a bit hysterical, even to her own ears, but she couldn’t help it. The past twenty-four hours had been too much for her. “C’mon, pull it together, Chris.” She needed to get to work and talk to Victor and the other staff. All thoughts blanked out when the voice, twice as exotic in person as it had been telepathically, emerged from the shadows next to her. “Why did you shy away, ma belle?” **** Jordan crouched on the sidewalk. After three days since the victims turned up, he didn’t find it surprising that no auras or other sensations from the murders lingered. No doubt the American’s Bureau had wiped out any evidence he might have been able to pick

up when they retrieved the corpses. He ignored Chrissy’s friend until the younger vampire cursed and adjusted the headset he’d been listening to. “Aww, Jaysus H. Christ. Look, man, take your time. I don’t care. Nothing I can do out here, and I gotta get in to Chris. She just ran into Talen.” “Talen?” The slightest sliver of concern trickled through his mind. He’d run across a Talen once. A very dangerous mage-born with an unusual focus to his gifts. “What is Talen?” He didn’t care to waste any longer on a pointless survey of the landscape, so he stood. Until Donovan’s comment, he’d sincerely hoped Chrissy was having more luck than he. “He’s, um, mage-born.” The other man bolted. Jordan scowled and watched Donovan run away. Since it gained him nothing to remain behind, he wandered slowly back to the club. The patrons made for interesting people-watching. What he saw certainly explained the six shades of red that she had turned, along with the blatant lies. For all her brash American ways, she still carried a certain sweetness with her, and in this environment? Such public displays hardly supported her “innocent” demeanor. My god, is that a werebird on a leash? I thought they were more dignified than that. He didn’t claim to be a prude and missed Angel with her beautiful body, so well honed into accepting and dealing pain during sex, but never in a public venue. Pity he didn’t like were-blood. The man who waved him back into the club looked like he could spare a pint or two. Of course, the Americans had rules about donations. Americans had rules, and paperwork, for just about everything. He couldn’t see a bloody thing through the pulsating mass of bodies. Lights shone from above, sparkling streams of color bouncing off an old-fashioned disco ball. Catching sight of the staircase to his left, he mounted it to view the dance floor from above. Remembering Chrissy’s dress from earlier, he searched the crowd for color, rather than face, and found her quickly. He frowned, noting the utterly love-sick, worshipful expression. He’d never seen her look at anyone like that. Jordan peered at the man dancing with her and bared his fangs. It was Talen. Glancing around for his only potential ally, he saw Donovan just reaching the pair.

Given the line of sight, he tried to reach out and touch her thoughts, finding only a disgusting morass of lust and adoration aimed at her companion. For the moment only, he envied the mage-born’s talent. If he had access to something like that, he’d win the bet immediately. It would take most of the fun out of victory, though. When he had her beneath him, he wanted her there willing and in full possession of her faculties, knowing he’d won. Chancing the possibility a mage-born might glance at him while he used his gifts, he shifted to his aural vision and stared down at her to be certain nothing looked amiss. Black and bronze, exactly as it appeared for the past two hundred years, though he saw a distinct tinge of blue-green flicker about the edges. Now that he knew she must be mage-born, he could narrow her gifts to the psy-mage category, since only a few branches of the magi could change the appearance of their auras. Jordan stared at the highlights and sighed. No help for it. She was under Talen’s sway. He found it rather odd that she had fallen prey to a mage-born’s spell, but given his prior encounter with the man, it wasn’t impossible. The man was incredibly strong for a modern mage-born, with their watered down gifts. Rather than waste time pushing through the crowd like Mr. Tate, he shifted and streamed over the heads of the dancers. Donovan reached the pair before he did, but Jordan arrived in time to see the younger vampire yank Chrissy back and grab the mage-born’s collar. About to solidify behind Talen, Jordan paused. Chrissy never stayed friends with aggressive men, from what he’d learned over the years. Anthony didn’t count, given their connection dating back to her mortal years. It surprised him even more when Donovan snapped something, his words lost in the chaotic noise that passed for modern “music” coming from the stage. The only words he made out were “Christine, you idiot.” Those words hadn’t been in English, but rather in an archaic Creten dialect of Greek. Jordan only spoke the language because he’d spent several decades in Greece in the fifteenth century. Talen bared his teeth and took a step forward. Jordan decided holding back wouldn’t be in his best interest and dropped to the dance floor in his solid form. Despite the five inch height difference between them, he reached out and yanked at the other man’s hair, pulling him backward. “Do you remember me, Talen?”

Talen’s dark eyes blinked, though no fear showed on his features, not even when Jordan wrapped his other, claw-tipped, hand around the man’s throat. He didn’t like to be this aggressive in public, but if he didn’t do something, he might lose what little control of Chrissy he currently had. That would prove inconvenient. Talen said, “Lord MacNaught, yes.” And there it was again, the accent that had bothered him so much when they’d had their runin some eight years ago. Talen sounded French, yet something about it was off, like when an opera singer first started working on a piece in a different language early in their careers and hadn’t yet adapted their ear to the correct pitch. An imitation, perhaps? And the man clearly spoke archaic Greek, given he had understood Mr. Tate’s comment. It amazed Jordan to no end that he was blatantly threatening a man, out in the open, and not a single person looked at him as if anything were amiss. Were Americans really that uncouth, that brawls didn’t garner a second look? “Chris, hon?” Donovan curled an arm around her waist, grip tightening when she tried to pull away, continuing to fawn over Talen. The younger vampire didn’t heed the mage-born, just stared at Chrissy. There was no sign of the pissed-off, bellicose man of only seconds before. Jordan shot Donovan a startled look at the rapid shift in attitude. That was more like what he had expected from the milquetoast mild-mannered boy. For one brief moment, Jordan had gotten an entirely different impression from the young one, but there was no longer any sign of the anger. Only as Jordan looked in his direction did Donovan seem to notice him. A faint hint of pink touched Donovan’s cheeks. Amusing blush. Dismissing the boy from his mind and turning to the more immediate problem at hand, Jordan glared back at the mage-born and tightened his grip on Talen’s throat. “I know what you’re capable of. Unless I miss my guess, you remember just what I can do as well. Which one of us do you think would win this time?” Somehow, Talen had located spells which allowed him to function much like the mythological incubus might. The only saving grace came from the fact that, unlike an incubus, Talen needed direct physical contact to inflict the most damage. Victims of his could be so

entranced that they’d simply walk off a cliff and grin all the way down to the ground if he asked them to. Jordan chose to risk physical contact, having survived a prior encounter with the man. He considered the reward, keeping Chrissy’s mind intact to continue being useful, worth a few risks. Luckily, as he’d proven to Talen in the past, he was no fledgling to be caught up by a spell-flinging mage-born. When he got no response, he shook Talen. “Answer me.” His prey neither struggled nor fled. Some might consider him brave. Jordan considered him an idiot. “It might be fun to find out, monsieur. Would you risk those around us if I chose to fight you?” Jordan gnashed his teeth. “If you know anything about me, you know I don’t care what happens to the rotters. Kill them, entrance them, it’s all the same. Just leave my toy alone.” If Chrissy were in her right mind, she’d never let me hear the end of that. I must remember to mention it to her. He pricked the man’s throat for emphasis. “Release your influence over her now.” To his left, Chrissy struggled as Mr. Tate attempted to guide her away. Distance made no difference. While Talen needed contact to initiate control, he could release it with just a thought. Jordan closed his eyes as a wave of lust-inducing power flowed from the mage-born. The child thought to catch him with the same trick he’d used on Chrissy? How insulting. He’d pay for this encounter, but as long as Chrissy and he emerged intact, a little pain didn’t matter. With so much energy pulsing around him, Jordan didn’t have to try particularly hard to gather energy into himself, though he didn’t know quite which spell might fit the situation. They were all subtle and worked best when the victim was totally unaware before the casting. After another long moment, incredibly drawn out given the claws in his throat, Talen laughed. He said, “The woman is released. I wish you well. You are not worth a fight.” Jordan peered around, saw Chrissy blink in a daze and cease fighting Donovan. Only then did he loosen his grip on the mortal, who promptly straightened and swung to face him. Jordan pointed a bloodstained claw at Talen. Aware of curious glances now being aimed in their direction, he switched to telepathy. Sex-magic fell neatly into the psy-category, which meant Talen would have at least

some telepathic ability. “If you ever go near my plaything again, I will take great delight in spending days removing body parts, and rest assured, I know how to do it in such a fashion you will survive until the very end.” The blood drained from Talen’s face, and he stumbled back, finally fleeing. His final comment reached Jordan’s thoughts before the crowd swallowed him up. “The Bloody Baron taking up a woman’s cause? How low the mighty can fall.” Tolerant laughter, with a delicious hint of fear mixed in, echoed in Jordan’s head. He didn’t respond, tolerated the invasion of his mind without response only because he knew when the laughter faded, the pain would begin.

Chapter Seven From ‘Vampire Lore’, Chapter 4, Cautionary Tales: In the year 1382, the war between magi and Blood hit its peak, and for a time, it seemed the Blood were sure to win. And then a single mage-born of House LeFarve unearthed magic previously lost in the annals of time which granted him the ability to utterly entrance members of the Blood, stealing the wills of more than sixty of our brethren to use their might against us on behalf of the mage-born, single-handedly resulting in the deaths of more than three hundred of our kind and several bloodlines. Only through the selfless efforts of the Circle’s Executioner, the Dark Witch and a handful of others did any of our kind survive the battle and once again destroy all trace of such magic. A reward is still listed in the records, should someone discover signs such magic is in use again and helps the Circle apprehend any such practitioners.

The first wave hit Jordan as he mounted the steps to the second floor. Pain licked along his limbs the way Chrissy’s fire had when she had set his townhouse ablaze, him inside. Subtle at first, like ants crawling up his arms and legs. The ants quickly turned to scorpions, pin-pricks of acid. He’d rather roast a few minutes in the sun than recover from this particular spell. He’d been at the battle of Orleans, and had almost fallen prey to it back then. Only his mageborn heritage had ultimately saved him from falling, and he’d thought such magic gone. Talen had somehow unearthed it, and Jordan had been unwilling to risk the ire of the European Council by killing the heir-apparent of their leader.

Compartmentalizing his thoughts, he shoved the pain out of his consciousness. As bad as it might be for him, he hadn’t been Talen’s primary target. It would be nothing compared to Chrissy’s withdrawal. Jordan paused, catching sight of his reflection in the dark plexi-glass that rimmed the club. Such a brief scuffle, and it had mussed his hair. He smoothed it back into place, aware that one must always maintain appearances, no matter the circumstances. Mr. Tate had probably taken her back to his apartment. Even as he moved in that direction, a faint mewling cry reached his ears. He knew that sound, knew the pain prompting it would only get worse over the next few hours. At the base of the steps to the small apartment, he stopped to collect himself. Showing sympathy wouldn’t help matters, though surprisingly he found he did empathize. He would turn this to his advantage. Chrissy knew nothing about Talen’s true nature. He could play on that, use this incident to force her to admit what she was. He certainly wouldn’t let her continue to wander about. With these new Aristocrats, he wouldn’t risk his own death by not looking after her. He was too certain they were tangled to take any more chances, hence his intervention with Talen. Tangled talents only happened when one or both of two mageborn slept together before both were in control of their gifts. Since he’d harnessed his power in his youth, that meant she hadn’t gained control over hers when they slept together in London. It was entirely possible her talents hadn’t woken up until he’d taken her to bed. But how could he have possibly predicted this? It was incredibly rare for a blood-mage not to have a talent prior to conversion, much less have it wake up after more than seventy years in their second life. Her screams continued, and he pushed away from the wall. No help for it now, no point in regretting choices made. At least there were benefits to the situation. Mounting the stairs to the small apartment, he listened through the heavy wood, hearing Tate crooning softly. His lip curled in disgust. Pity served no purpose in relieving the after-effects of that spell. Most didn’t survive. Blood-magi weren’t most, and Talen hadn’t had a chance to finish what he started.

Jordan set aside the genial side of his personality, drawing forth the part he didn’t care to show Chrissy when he wasn’t trying to scare her. Anger and fear gave one at least a tiny buffer against the invading pain. **** The bones of Donovan’s hand crunched under her grip, and breath hissed through his teeth, the noise barely making an impact on the agony that ate at her every limb. He didn’t let up, continued the useless rocking. “Make it stop, Donovan!” New footsteps sounded, and she forced her eyes open, making out Jordan stalking across the room. Shit, oh shit. His presence loomed large as he towered over both of them. “Get out, Mr. Tate.” Not with him in that mood. Chris clung tighter to Donovan. “Don’t leave me.” “Shhh, sweetheart. I’ve got your back.” The tremor in his mental voice inspired no confidence. “My place, MacNaught. You can l-leave, man.” Jordan crouched in front of her, capturing her chin in his hand. His fingers tightened when she tried to yank away. “Tell me the truth, Christine. Does. He. Know?” In case she doubted what he was asking, he added silently, “You’re a blood-mage.” Donovan’s grip slipped a little when Jordan shot him a poisonfilled glower. She tried to focus, stifle the screams that lessened the itchy, biting pain. She choked. “No, he doesn’t.” Donovan jumped into her head. He might be a coward, but he wasn’t stupid. “What’s he talking about? Do I know what?” “Please, let it go.” She met Jordan’s gaze full on. Under her grip, she heard bones crunch again as she tried to focus enough against the pain. Donovan ground his teeth together at the pain she was inflicting. “He doesn’t.” Cold as she’d ever seen, Jordan stared at her. Maybe he believed her; maybe he didn’t. Finally, he nodded, seeming to accept her words and repeated his command. “Get out, Mr. Tate. You can’t help her right now.” “And you can?” “Actually, yes, I can. We’re going to talk, you and I, about what you allow in your club. But later. I won’t tell you again: leave us.”

Donovan shuddered under the continued antipathy flowing from Jordan and asked silently, “Should I go?” Despite his bravado in even asking the question, she felt the muscles in his arms under her hands trembling. Chris nodded and stumbled to her feet. Her bones threatened to crack and shatter under the pressure building inside her. Maybe death wouldn’t be so bad after all. Sweat slicked her body, and Jordan caught her before she fell over. The contact seemed to push away some of the pain. No, the pain leached away, she realized, her mind clearing some. Against him as she was, she heard his sharp intake of breath. The door shut behind Donovan as he left with nary another word of protest. Chicken-shit. “Listen to me, Christine,” Jordan said quietly against her temple, arms wrapped around her waist. “It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and nothing will stop it.” “It’s fading.” She panted, pressed closer against him since the contact seemed to help, though she hated the vulnerability it implied. He barked out a laugh. “No, I’m sharing it with you. As soon as I let go, it will rebound.” “What happened? And how are you sharing this?” More importantly, why haven’t you taken my head off already? “You ran into a mage-born with a very unusual focus to his gifts and access to almost forgotten magic. Blood-mages are particularly suspectible to him. As to the rest, just suffice to say I am.” She wanted to let go, push away to keep up the façade of no weakness and no fear, but it hurt too damned much. It’s going to get worse? She rested her head on his shoulder, breathing in the fresh smell of him and tried to think straight. He must have a reason for not executing her instantly. Jordan rarely did anything without a reason. “So now what? We came for information. And how can I convince you not to call a blood hunt on me?” “You’re useful, and you know how to keep secrets. We’ll talk about this, make no mistake, but right now, I’m going to speak with Mr. Tate’s staff. I assume you didn’t get a chance to talk to the bartender?” Lovely. Let’s just leave this hanging over my head. At least it’s still on my shoulders for the moment. Thanks a lot. “I can do it.” Probably not, but she had to try.

“No. You are going back to Fort Myers where you can’t get into any more trouble tonight.” “But.” She didn’t get further than that. Home sounded good, anywhere away from him. “But nothing. Being in an alternate form makes the pain easier to deal with, and by the time you reach home, the worst will be over.” Jordan squeezed her shoulder as he gently disengaged from the oddly comforting embrace. “I strongly suggest you be there when I get back, rather than running, which I suspect you’re considering. Run, and you will regret it once I find you.” In a mockery of old-world courtesy that contradicted his chilling pronouncement, Jordan bowed over her hand and then strode toward the door. Chris shuddered, watching him go. He paused and glanced back at her. Brief indecision flitted across his face before the ice chips returned to his eyes. “Something for you to think about on your flight home, since you saw that knife earlier: like you, I once had a different name. My parents called me Malcolm. Shift, and go home, Christine. I’ll see you before dawn.” Agony ripping at her stomach and chest, Chris shifted. Her clothes and knife clattered to the parquet floor. Jordan moved forward and started collecting the items as she streamed outside to start the flight home. His words proved true, and she discovered she didn’t hurt as much. She attained flight altitude before the meaning of his statement sank in. Malcolm Kerrich? **** After depositing Chrissy’s things in her behemoth truck, which he hadn’t the faintest interest in driving, Jordan returned to the club and made his way to the bar. His conversation with the Jamaican bartender Victor yielded nothing, which he’d expected, given that Donovan had found the bodies outside the club. Jordan ordered a blood and tonic to sip and sat on one of the barstools to wait. Donovan joined him within moments. The younger man shot him a nervous look and cleared his throat. “Should we maybe go somewhere quieter than out here?” “It’s in your best interest.” Since he didn’t know where the other man would go, he followed Donovan. They wound through the crowd to enter a well-stocked and ventilated kitchen. It made for a sharp contrast from the dark, somewhat aromatic club interior, indication of industrial-strength air purifiers at work.

They ended their trek at a small office. Jordan shut the door while the other man settled behind the utilitarian desk. Vendor receipts and miscellaneous paperwork littered the surface. “Look, man, Talen doesn’t ever cause problems.” Jordan set his drink aside with a loud “thunk” to plant his hands on the desk surface, leaning forward. “Shut up and listen to me, you fool. From your reaction, you clearly knew what Talen was capable of. Magic like that nearly destroyed our kind six hundred years ago, and you just blatantly let that man waltz in here.” Donovan fiddled with a pen, not looking up. “Look, I offer a place to relax from life’s stressors, and I’ve never seen Talen do that before. Yeah, he charms the ladies, and has a thing for vamps, but they always agree to it.” “Then how do you explain Christine? You’ve been her bedmate. Do you really think she’d ever agree to be charmed like that?” He once again contemplated mentioning his ongoing liaison with Chrissy. Given how fast she turned to Donovan when in pain, it would serve his larger plans to remove that source of comfort. One by one, he wanted to sever every tie she had to be sure she turned to him when she needed something. Calculating definitely, but perhaps necessary under the circumstances. “I’ve never seen him do that.” This time the protest came out much weakened. “He’s always unfailingly polite.” “Polite cobras are still cobras. I tend to be ‘polite’, and do you doubt what I’m capable of?” It gave Jordan enormous satisfaction to see the young man crumple in on himself, a shudder wracking his body. His reputation did wonders for cutting through the crap of the young, and he didn’t have to lift a finger any more, just bluster a bit. “If I hadn’t been here, do you think he would have backed down? Could you have called Talen off without getting caught up in the spell yourself??” Donovan swallowed and wiped a hand over his mouth. “Talen doesn’t use his powers like that. Not on men, or the un-unwilling.” “He’s mage-born, you stupid, foolish child. What part of that don’t you understand? We may all pretend the old hatreds are gone, but you know the mage-born would love to find a way to destroy us, and the magic Talen uses is a bloody good place for them to start.” Jordan shoved off the desk and reclaimed his drink. “The Circle will

be watching your club from now on, Mr. Tate. If we hear any tales about Talen being given freedom to do what he did this evening again, one of us will return and, well, do I need to finish that?” Barely audible, the younger vampire said, “No, sir.” “Excellent.” With a self-satisfied smile, he finished his drink and set the glass aside. “Now, if he returns and tries to use his gifts after you’ve explained they’re no longer acceptable in your club, I want you to contact me. I’ll be in the area for some time to come.” Donovan’s gulp echoed in the tiny room. The young were so much fun to play with, so easily frightened by the elders. “Contact me immediately.” Jordan scribbled his mobile number on a vodka shipment label. “You’re not qualified to deal with Talen, nor should you be expected to. His father leads the European mage-born. Hopefully, knowing I may be near and that I can resist his spells, he will think twice before trying that nonsense again, but if not, I’m the best person in the vicinity to deal with him. The mage-born know better than to push us right now.” “Head of the Euopean Alliance?” Donovan’s hazel eyes widened in shock, and he swallowed hard a second time. “I knew he had power, but … is there anything you can do to stop a guy like that?” “Yes, and I have done so in the past. Deplorable though it may be, we work with the magical ones now, and I have ties to the European community that the rest of the Circle does not.” Except Anthony, and even the old man had lost some of his contacts after spending the past half-century in North America. He studied the younger man for a long moment, deciding he’d imparted enough warning for one evening. With conscious effort, Jordan set aside the cold demeanor, relaxing his stance and tempering his tone. Being the Bloody Baron was much like being an actor in a role, though most assumed that was the entirety of who he was. “Is there anything about the bodies you might have failed to mention to the Bureau, Mr. Tate? Your bartender said nothing came to mind, but you were the one who actually found them, yes?” Donovan nodded and toyed with the scrap of paper Jordan had written his number on. “I told the Bureau everything. I was out for a cigarette. The light was out, like it had been for a couple days. I like to walk when I smoke. And, well, then I found ‘em. Just ‘bout made me puke my guts up.”

Having seen the pictures earlier that day, Jordan was not impressed with the boy’s fortitude. He’d been making bigger spectacles of his victims since he was a half-century into his second life. Jordan considered him for a moment longer and then nodded. “Very well. If you think of anything, anything at all that you might not have mentioned to the Bureau, call me immediately. Have a pleasant evening.” Leaving the bustling back area of the club, he side-stepped a pair of male were-things, likely were-canines if he took their panting over one another literally, groping one another in the darkened hallway, and stepped out into the sultry night. The humidity made for uncomfortable flying, but he didn’t want to tarry any longer. Chrissy could come back and retrieve her vehicle later, after they had an indepth conversation about her gifts. The first lightning bolt through his brain staggered him. Jordan nearly tripped over a giggly young woman, saved from such ignominy only by dissolving. The second blast forced him back into his human body, but by that time he’d reached the alley behind the club and thudded softly against the brick exterior of the club as he reformed. He felt the vibrations from the pounding bass within the walls as colors dripped, blinding him to his surrounding. He cursed, squeezed his eyes shut as he clutched at his temples and tried to breathe slowly. Two visions in three weeks after fifty years of silence. What the deuce? The third blast nearly blew the back of his skull off his head, and he gave in to the inevitable, unclenching the fists clutched at his side. The visions would not be denied when they chose to come. Once he stopped fighting, the pain drained away, and instead of pitch black and flashes of riotous color, the world of his second sight snapped into place. He instantly recognized Chrissy’s basement office. Air whooshed from his lungs. He made out her collapsed form on the floor, black spreading from a gaping wound in her throat. A pair of elephant slippers covered her feet, and she wore ratty pajamas, her appearance odd but somehow cute in that way that females could sometimes be when they weren’t dressing to flaunt their wares. If he discounted the fact that she was bleeding to death, of course. That part wasn’t so attractive.

He snarled his control word, trained in him since the year his first vision had come upon him. “Expergefacio!” Reality dripped back in to his great relief. The control word only worked after the height of the vision, so he’d caught the import of the meaning in what he’d seen. Jordan sucked in a weak breath, trying to recover from the nauseating headache that lingered from his initial refusal to surrender to the vision. Damn, damn, damn. Mixing with the remnants of the spell pain, it left him weak in the knees. Blood roared in his ears, and he glared at the brick under his fingers, refusing to cast up his accounts. There was nothing to come up. A minute later, the worst of the recovery passed, and he straightened, reaching into his pocket. His mobile wasn’t there. He’d left it in Fort Myers. Facing the crowd of A’Jin’Cor wasn’t an option either. From experience, he knew his heritage would blaze in his aura for all to see for at least the next hour. Uncontrolled visions included consequences. Shaking himself, he shifted to his eagle form and launched into the air. One way or another, he was going to forge a damned blood-bond with Chrissy. Dependence on phones was repulsive. If she didn’t like it, too bad. Not that he intended to let her off the metaphorical leash any time in the near future, considering his life rested in her hands. God help him when she figured that fact out. **** Chris gripped the black and white knitted blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Sarah had made it for her six years ago. It looked nice against the comfy white and pink pajamas and matching elephant slippers. The blanket and attire did squat against the pain, though she thought it was in decline. The clothes helped her feel better emotionally. A half-pound of sinfully rich chocolate truffles also might help. She had brought the box down with her, but didn’t look forward to seeing them a second time. She missed eating food without having to puke it up. The same program tweaked earlier sat on the screen. She’d reviewed the code three times to be certain she hadn’t left anything out. Her skin tingled from the collection of energy, and it didn’t feel good when thrown on top of the infernal itching.

“Send it, Chris,” she muttered. “No one will know what it is, if they find it at all. Señor Psycho knows what you are now, and he can’t execute you without a day’s notice, so no harm there. Just send.” Gritting her teeth, she hit “enter”. Energy drained out of her, which amplified the incubus pain, and she whimpered. Mother of Lorminstra, magic shouldn’t hurt. Her teeth chattered, and she clung to the blanket, climbing unsteadily to her feet. The world swayed around her as she stumbled and banged into the opposite wall. She sucked in a breath, feeling like a new colt taking its first steps in the world. Her hands trembled against the soft wool. It might be hours before Jordan got back, depending on how long he wasted at the club. He wouldn’t find anything. Donovan would have told her if there were anything to find. Picking up the box of chocolates, determined to eat them all in hopes of feeling better, she staggered toward the exit. Belatedly she registered the man looming before her. The god from the club! Holy shit, did he follow me home? He’s kinda big, and sexy, for a puppy. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him; she registered that much just before she noticed the blade arcing for her. “So sorry, mademoiselle.” Bliss at the golden voice turned the world bright even as she felt pressure, but no pain. She felt no pain at all, surrounded by that lovely sound, even when his knife ripped through her throat. Warmth splashed down her chest, coating her hands. Chris lifted her fingers, startled to see them coated in blood. My blood, she thought vaguely. How very pretty. Her knees sagged. Shouldn’t it hurt? Reality faded around her, replace by orgasmic pleasure blossoming throughout her body. Talen caught her before she toppled forward, heightening the pleasure zinging through her body. He actually looked apologetic as he said, “You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, ma belle. Nothing personal in this. Sleep now.” The world faded around her, and she slithered to the floor, her descent slowed only by the comforting embrace from Talen. Of all the damned ways to die, mage-born-slaughtered hadn’t been on her list. Her last thought brought a faint smile as she slid into bliss-filled blackness: Jordan’s gonna be pissed.

Chapter Eight From Jordan MacNaught’s private journal on waking dreams: After extensive experimentation, it is my experience that if you can create a believable transition from reality to a waking dream, the subject will not question elements of the dream, even if under normal circumstances the element is either impossible or unlikely. It is particularly satisfying when a normally rational man screams because he believes a yellow-striped elephant is about to trample on him without questioning the possibility that such a beast actually exists. Wonderful thing, magic. Rotters are such idiots. Caveat: Dreamwalkers might question odd happenings, but if they remain unaware of the dream magic, as opposed to reality, they will generally shrug off inconsistencies.

Jordan streaked down over the quiet community, trying to remember which townhouse Chrissy owned. He circled the area about the sparkling pool, lit from below by alternating green and red lights, trying to get his bearings. After studying the vehicles parked in driveways, he finally recognized Chrissy’s door from the hideous wreath attached to the door and shifted to stream inside. The smell of blood smacked him in the face. He cursed, the memory of Angel’s lifeless body flashing before his eyes. Since he was still moving, Chrissy couldn’t be dead yet. Nothing looked to be disturbed in the entry. Relying on the vision, he turned and made for the basement. Each step he took confirmed he was going the right way as the odor magnified. Despite the gravity of the situation, his stomach rumbled. He’d fed two days earlier on a smelly drunkard shortly before leaving London. So much blood tainting the air played on his vampire nature.

He saw the pale hand from the bottom of the stairs and quickly found the rest of her sprawled exactly as seen in the vision. Her throat gaped open, bleeding starting to slow, presumably because her supply ran low. Not much time then. Indeed, his own strength began to wane even as he assessed the situation. Without heed for the damage blood would do to his suit, he dropped to the floor and ripped his jacket off to press against the wound. At least she didn’t need to breathe so he didn’t have to worry about suffocating her as he closed the wound. He muttered to himself and slapped her across the face. No immediate response. “Chrissy, damn you, wake up.” He couldn’t pull her into a waking dream if she wasn’t awake. The dream passage didn’t work well enough for him to climb into sleeping dreams. This was no time to experiment and find out if her dreams were any different. He had no doubts about their talents any longer, not given his rapidly depleting strength. Jordan extended talons in his free hand and sank them into her arm. She stirred, eyelids fluttering. Thanking the god he hadn’t believed in in centuries, he gathered his strength before it disappeared entirely, reached for her mind and yanked her into a waking dream. He refused to take the chance she might rebuff his assistance, and she was just bitch enough to let herself die rather than accept his help. **** “Christine?” Anthony’s voice reached her in the fluffy blackness that cocooned her. It followed almost on top of the stabbing pain in her left arm. The ten-ton weights attached to her eyelids didn’t let her look about. “Stay with me. Can you hear me?” She couldn’t gather strength enough to nod, and when she tried to speak, nothing came out. It was almost like being buried alive again, the all-encompassing darkness, pain wracking her body. That thought sent a violent tremor through her body, and adrenaline gave her strength enough to flail at the iron bar pressed against her throat. “Shhh, don’t fight, I’m holding the wound closed, so the skin knits together. Swallow as best you can.” Warm liquid dribbled across her lips, and she licked at it. Blood, strong and heady, flooded her tongue. Ambrosia, the blood of another vampire. So powerful, so very powerful. Ancient blood.

She’d never drunk another vampire’s blood, not since the day her sire brought her over. Too much risk. They might want her to reciprocate. Skin touched her mouth, and she smelled his blood. With her head supported, she sank her fangs into his arm. Ugh – eating Stuffy Britches. It beat the grave and letting MacNaught outlive her. Despite the ambrosial taste, she couldn’t focus on what she was doing very well. Anthony shook her sharply. “Don’t stop, Chrissy. Pay attention.” Chrissy? Since when did he call her that? Only Jordan ever used that name for her. The puzzlement slid away, dissipating like smoke, as she continued to drink. With each swallow, her body slowly relaxed against his, and death’s beckoning faded. She kept her mindset fixed to provide nothing but pleasure, revolting as she found the idea of providing Anthony with a cheap thrill. Still, it beat dying. Soon, far too soon, he gently pulled his wrist from her mouth. Chris clung to the arm, but he was too strong. She whimpered, relieved when she heard the noise. No more gaping slit throat? The iron bar against her neck lifted, and fingers trailed the skin. The caress tickled even as the area burned from healing. This time when she tried to open her eyes, the lead weights fell away, and she looked up into Anthony’s puppy-dog brown eyes. Afraid to try talking, she reverted to telepathy. “How did you know I needed you?” One edge of his mouth quirked up in a smile, and he cradled her against his chest. She drew in his scent, woodsy and clean, and paused. Something seemed off about the smell, but like her earlier concern, this one drifted off into nothing as well. “I was in the neighborhood.” “How’s things with Dee? Is she here?” It didn’t seem likely that he’d go so far from her friend after such a short time. “Ah, hmm.” He trailed off, and she heard his heart beat, slow and steady. “Things are progressing. Let’s put you in bed. You’ll do better if you sleep a few hours, hmm?” The world tilted as he somehow managed to climb to his feet without setting her down. Chris nuzzled her head under his chin as he effortlessly mounted the stairs toward the second floor. “You were right, Stuffy Britches. Señor Psycho came to see me.” “Did he?” He shifted her weight, as they crested the top of the stairs. “What did he ask of you?”

She shrugged sleepily as her eyes drifted shut. “What you figured. He wants me to help find Angel’s killers. He’s behaving for now, more or less.” His chest rumbled under her cheek as he laughed softly. “Good to know.” Her conscience prodded at her. He wasn’t her father, or brother, but she desperately didn’t want to let him down. Maybe now was the best time to tell him about Jordan. He wouldn’t yell at her in this condition. “Anthony?” “What?” A door banged into the doorstop. He shifted her weight again, and fabric rustled as he pulled down the pink satin comforter on her bed. She sank into the soft depths gratefully as he set her down. God, she’d need to soak the blanket to get the blood out. She didn’t much care, though. No more dying. Strength was already beginning to return, though she needed to sleep to heal faster. “You won’t hate me, will you?” “Why would I hate you? Have you done something I ought know about?” Anthony brushed her hair from her forehead before his weight settled next to her, and he curled an arm around her waist so she lay half atop him. He normally didn’t cuddle with her and certainly not in bed for crying out loud. She sighed into his chest and began drifting away on the clouds of sleep. “I know what he did to Dee, hell, did to me, too. But sometimes, not often mind you, Jordan’s not so bad. He’s upset about Angel. I think he’s actually sad she died.” The hand stroking her hair paused, and he snorted. “Sad over a woman’s death? Not bloody likely.” Sometimes he sounded so English, hoity-toity. “You two sound alike sometimes. You can both be pompous jackasses at times.” “Ever consider he might not have intended to kill you when he buried you?” “Riiiight.” Chris yawned and let herself sink toward the welcoming warmth of a healing sleep. Once last question forced itself out just before she dropped over the precipice. “Not mad I don’t hate him like everyone else does?” “As that would be counter-productive, no. Go to sleep, my dear. We’ll talk later.”

Did Anthony crawl into Jordan’s head and root around? Maybe she was still dying, and this whole conversation was one massive dream, which would explain Anthony and Jordan being mixed up. With that disturbing notion, she let consciousness slip away again. **** As Chrissy’s breathing slowed, and then stopped altogether to indicate sleep, Jordan considered her dark crown of hair, sticky in places with drying blood. While he hadn’t intended to trick her into any more than accepting his blood, the conversation certainly had proved illuminating. A pompous jackass, was he? That certainly suited the old man, but not him. Perhaps supercilious or even condescending upon rare occasion, but never pompous. He waited a few minutes longer to be certain she wouldn’t surface again and eased her down onto the pillows on the right side of the bed. If he didn’t get up and clean up the blood, his appetite would get the better of him, and the last thing he needed to do was bite the closest blood source. Without control, he’d take too much, kill her, and so much for him. While he wouldn’t stoop so low as to provide a sponge-bath, delightful as the idea of naked Chrissy might be, he could at least get her out of the blood-saturated clothes. That thought in mind, he opened her top dresser drawer and found two neat rows of underwear, one ugly and utilitarian which he expected from her, the other lacy and feminine, much like Angel’s lingerie. Why the difference? Intrigued by the possibility of learning more, anything to give him insight, discover cracks to exploit, he closed the top drawer. The second provided more of the same, with stockings and socks. He thoroughly approved the black garter belt, wondered what it would take to talk her into wearing it, stockings and very little else. Maybe a corset. There was something very arresting about a woman wearing a corset. He missed those days. The other drawers told the same story, two very different sets of clothes. Shutting the last, he turned and made for her closet. To his left, in a very narrow section, he recognized the standard jeans, t-shirt, and bargain-basement apparel. To his right however, in space that clearly indicated heavyduty remodeling to expand the size of the closet, he found a wardrobe

even his late, spendthrift wife would have envied, designer-wear all. Rack after rack of clothes, everything from Gucci and LeTourneau to Versace. Each hung outfit included an index card referencing shoes, hat or scarf, and a code he suspected might indicate jewelry. If she went to all the trouble of compiling complete outfits, there must be jewelry of some sort to go with it. God knew Angel had accessorized, somewhere to the tune of hundreds of thousands of pounds. She hadn’t patronized Celtic either, to his eternal annoyance. Jordan backed out of the closet, head cocked to one side as he processed the contrast between the two sides of her closet. To his left, sloppy/trashy junk. To his right, high-culture and fashion. Why the dichotomy? It makes no sense. Given the still-drying blood, he opted for items from the ‘junk’ side. At the doorway after changing her, he paused to look back. She looked frail, less Chrissy, asleep. Vulnerable in a way he never pictured her. In two hundred years, they’d never actually slept together. And, unlike every other woman he saw in such a state, he didn’t have even a momentary fantasy about how to kill her. Very strange, not feeling the hunger to maim and kill rise when he expected it. Other, just-as-entertaining, fantasies certainly came to mind. “I’ve lost my bloody mind.” With that curt statement, he stalked downstairs. He hadn’t even groped her while exchanging clothes. The woman must have supplies laid in somewhere. He needed a drink of the red variety. Just a woman, nothing more. Drink in hand a few moments later, he returned to her basement office and studied the blood spatter. It would stain horrendously if he didn’t do something about that. He didn’t shy away from cleaning things of this nature. One could hardly call in a cleaning service after a day of entertainment that left a body behind. **** Dumping the sponge in the odiferous soapy water, Jordan sat back on his haunches. No more stain. One of the scented candles he found in her bathroom cabinet filled the area with jasmine and gardenia, eliminating the lingering smell as well. Satisfied with his efforts, he wiped his hands on his paint- and blood-spattered jeans and

stood. With no one about to observe, he’d gone for a more casual look than normal. He looked at the computer screens with interest. She’d been working on something most industriously earlier on something, and he’d caught only a glimpse before he startled her. She’d been about to cast something, he had realized in retrospect, which explained the charged atmosphere as she leaped away. He lifted his eyebrows at the series of photographs that cycled over the screens. Some of them were unmistakably the work of the little whore. She might be useless for many things, but put a camera in MacKechnie’s hands, and she had an artistic nature. His London townhouse sported three of her prints. Odd, but true. He smiled at the candid shots of Chrissy mounted on a splendid bay stallion, recognizing it as one of the two horses in the picture on her bedside table. The stallion was the infamous Marcus Aurelius he’d been trying for the past six years to procure stud services with, anonymously, of course. He settled in the worn chair and grimaced upon sighting the grimy mouse. Rather than touch it, he retrieved some antibacterial wipes found earlier and scrubbed at it industriously. Once the device looked white again, he tossed the wipe away and examined the open window on the screen. Yes, that looked like the code he saw earlier. Very interesting. Combining magic and technology was underrated, but he had neither the inclination for coding nor the talent for weaving a spell to combine the two. From the blinking cursor and “searching system” message at the bottom of the screen, it appeared Chrissy did. Jordan scrolled up on the screen. Thankfully, while he might not be interested in creating his own programs, he did have a fairly extensive knowledge of programming, having studied up on it a few years back when the Circle first hired her to work for them. He hadn’t wanted her doing things he couldn’t either figure out or undo if need be. The language of the magical component of the program reminded him of certain dream-walker spells he was familiar with. He wouldn’t have thought of trying to, essentially, make a computer dream, but it might just work. It couldn’t hurt to try, he supposed. When he came to the end, he whistled softly. A massive undertaking. She couldn’t have received much training in her gifts, and yet she had still managed to create and cast a very complex spell.

No wonder her attacker got in a clean kill-shot. Given the period of their respective departures from Tampa, she couldn’t have cast the spell much in advance of getting her throat cut, which meant she’d been incredibly weak. A mage-born would never survive such a casting, which meant Chrissy had far too much power for her age. He wasn’t strong enough to cast a spell of this magnitude, even with all his years and altered gifts. His earlier curiosity about her sire stirred again. A quick perusal of her system found the icon for the American’s Bureau database, and, clicking on it, he entered his ID and password when the screen came up. In exchange for the Blood playing by human laws and following their silly regulations about snacking on the general populace (mostly), the Circle reserved the right to monitor the Bureau’s information on their kind. The Bureau still tried to keep secrets, but thanks to Chrissy’s work, secrets didn’t stay that way. He clicked to the appropriate screen to pull up her records. “Who sired you?” It needed to be an ancient, someone at least as old as he. Nothing else made sense, for her speed and strength. Given her enhanced gifts, her sire should be a blood-mage, but other than Xanthea, he was the oldest such that he knew of. Of course, he’d overlooked Chrissy’s gifts for fifty years before he started getting suspicious, so maybe he wasn’t as observant as he thought. “There you are.” The screen showed what he presumed to be her driver’s license picture, typically irreverent with her tongue stuck out at the camera. Christine née Jameson, changed to Masterson in the nineteenth century and then the shift to Javert in the 1980s. Most records didn’t share the same level of completeness, but he assumed she’d entered her own profile while putting the whole thing together. “There it is. Conversion in 1752. Sire, Michael Hampton.” When he clicked on Hampton’s link, a new screen popped up. No picture, nothing more than a brief description and link back to his only known surviving child, Christine. The description triggered a faint memory. I know that name, don’t I? Something about a hunt in Canada in the eighteenth century for a bloke supporting the French, betraying

the Empire. Pity he couldn’t call on Angel to check his records in Scotland. Prior to the Great Awakening, when the Blood began ceding power to the humans in exchange for peace, he had meticulously documented his kills with portrait and notes. Steepling his fingers, he studied the screen over them, and smiled. Raphael, fellow member of the Circle, shared his proclivities and knew about his collection. Normally the man wouldn’t leave South America without an execution threat over his head. Given the old man’s agreement to usher the little whore into their ranks, Raphael needed to come north, so Jordan might as well make his trip worthwhile. Reaching through the blood-bond, he made his presence and desire for conversation known. It didn’t take long before the Spaniard responded. “Jordan! It has been too long.” “Five years, yes? The Argentine hunt, I believe.” They’d tracked a small clan of were-panthers through the Amazon and picked them off, one by one, over a week. Glorious fun, a break with his otherwise boring life over the past century since he’d curtailed his Bloody Baron activities. “I need a favor.” “Name it.” Raphael owed him for elevation to the Circle, having come from an obscure background, thanks to his reluctance to leave South America. The Spaniard might be over seven hundred, but lack of influence or notoriety counted against him. Jordan had only recommended Raphael after considering the value of having favors owed from those in the ranks with him. Jordan fully intended to lead the Circle before he died. “You know my collection of art in the lower reaches of Cliffshead? You’ve admired it in the past.” “Si. What of it?” “You’ve got to trot north to greet our newest member. Caldwell notified you of his change in heart, correct?” “Unfortunately. Your motivations confuse me. One such as that, a child, and your sworn enemy?” “Her influence cannot be denied.” More the pity. He considered Athdara useful. Since he couldn’t kill her without bringing the old man’s wrath, and likely Xanthea’s as well, he might as well put her to work for him. He wondered idly if Anthony had mentioned she would need to form a

blood-bond with him yet. After learning of Jordan’s part in keeping the old man from telling her the truth about who killed her little brothers, he imagined the notion wouldn’t be well received. Ahh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. Rumor had it she had a predilection for throwing things. “I need you to detour on the way here. I can’t spare the time to go home myself to investigate.” “Oh?” “Aye. I recall killing someone, but not the specific year, nor much about him.” No way Hampton had been a blood-mage, much less an ancient. Jordan had drained the man, and tasted no magic at all. “You need this information?” “Yes. At least the date of death and a copy of my portrait. You can text it to me.” The death had taken place centuries before the Rights and Responsibilities Act, so no harm if the authorities saw it in the airwaves. He propped his feet up on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. “I need it as soon as possible. Decisions must be made on a situation I’m dealing with, with regard to the Aristocrats.” “I was heading to America shortly. Andre is off in the Middle East dealing with Fatima’s death. I wish to return home before he emerges.” Not surprising, that sentiment. Andre got along with Raphael as well as he got along with Jordan, which was not at all. A wise man avoided Andre, given the man could kill any of them without trying hard. “So you’ll go?” Raphael grunted, not a real response. Finally, he said, “I will arrange it, my friend.” “Thank you, Raphael. Have a pleasant evening.” Severing the connection, Jordan set his feet on the floor. Chrissy was about as vulnerable as she would be for the foreseeable future. He certainly didn’t intend to let anyone get another shot in at her, but unless he could track her, she could conceivably disappear if she so chose. He’d deal with the tantrum after she realized what he’d done, but he intended to have a blood-bond with her whether she agreed to it or not. Nothing in their bet forbade creation of one before she lost, and then they could set the whole matter aside without further bother. Once she’d healed enough to wake, he’d take care of it.

**** Chris grasped her throat, gasped. A mellifluous voice whispered, “Ares sends his regrets.” She bolted upright, found reality matched her dream with her fingers clenched around her throat. Blinking as her eyes teared up, she swallowed hard. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Christine?” Anthony. She sucked in a quick breath, looking frantically about. He crossed from the bedroom doorway and settled on the bed next to her, taking her hand in his. “Nightmare?” Not sure her voice would work, she nodded and burrowed against him. She hated waking up from nightmares alone. There’d been hundreds after Donovan and Dee unburied her. At least her bedroom wasn’t dark. “You still don’t look up to snuff. Are you hungry?” She was famished. Blood raced beneath the surface of his skin, so close it taunted her. Without looking up, she nodded. Deciding to risk embarrassment if she found she didn’t have a voice, she coughed and croaked out, “Starved.” “I’m not surprised. You very nearly didn’t make it.” He offered his wrist. “Drink, and then we’ll talk about what happened.” Having already sampled the cuisine once, her mouth watered at the notion. Ancient blood certainly carried a kick, as her restored voice attested. But she shook her head regretfully. “Already did that once, Stuffy Britches.” “Unfortunately, it’s me or nothing. I was a bit peckish myself after I tended you earlier and consumed what you had on hand. But really, horse blood?” Chris frowned at the wry complaint. It made sense her larder might be bare, after supporting two vamps for a couple of days. She hadn’t had time to go to the bank since coming back from Vegas. “This, coming from the man who introduced me to it? Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll hunt.” He sighed, but nudged her upward. Chris flung back the comforter and glanced toward the window where she made out darkness beyond the curtain. Night still, or again? And if the latter, where was Jordan? Surely he and Anthony weren’t both in her house.

“Can you stand? I’m not exaggerating when I say you look knackered.” No time like the present to find out. Setting foot on the floor, she heaved herself up and just as quickly, toppled over, saved the embarrassment of bonking her head on the window when Anthony caught the back of her t-shirt and yanked. Her clean t-shirt, she realized. Eeek, Anthony saw me naked? What was worse, him seeing her naked, or her walking in on him with Dee? Hmm, definitely the latter. Her head spun, and she plopped back on the bed with a grumbled, “Thanks.” “Now do you believe me? You’ll do our cause no good if you fall over.” “Where, ah, hrmph.” Shit, if Jordan hadn’t come back, she really didn’t want to explain why she asked about him. Then again, Anthony’d had however long in the house and must have found Jordan’s things in her guest room. She’d just ignore the situation until or unless Anthony asked. “Dude, you know how I feel about sharing blood.” “And under most circumstances, I heartily concur. This is not most circumstances. I’m no happier than you about it.” He again offered his arm, and Chris cringed internally. Could be worse, she supposed. At least he didn’t expect her to take it from the neck. That was too intimate. The idea of getting all close and personal, much less the whole pain/pleasure issue, still left her with the yicks. “You’re no use right now. I could make it an order, you know. Rank hath its privileges.” A warthog-like snort escaped before she could stop it. “Like you’d reprimand me if I said no. Will it get you off my back?” “It might.” He flashed her an innocent smile. Her earlier unease with Anthony returned, and she studied him for a drawn-out moment. Nearly dying had obviously screwed with her head. She was jumping at shadows. “This is just plain wrong.” She took his proffered wrist. Taking his blood a second time was a million times worse because living or dying wasn’t on the line, just hunger and weakness. Then again, did she really want to be less than one hundred percent when Jordan inevitably came back?

With that last thought firmly in mind, she leaned down and bit in. Anthony’s faint moan finally dragged Chris’s awareness from the richness of his blood, and she let go of his arm to sit. Her eyes widened as she glanced at his face and took note of the gray pallor. Dark eyes lay at half mast. “Stuffy Britches?” He blinked slowly. “Better?” His comment came out as a whisper, as if having to exert an enormous amount of energy simply to speak. Oh, that’s not good. Expecting him to stop her, she hadn’t monitored her intake to avoid drawing too much from him. From the waxen cast to his skin and dazed expression, he was in bad shape. “Much. Damn it, you didn’t stop me.” “You needed it.” This time, it was Chris who caught him before he fell backward onto her comforter and held him upright. It wasn’t hard, given she straddled his lap at the moment. “Well, I just needed a pickme-up, so I could go hunt on my own.” He smiled blearily and rested his forehead on her shoulder, arms weakly around her. “Always take care of you, Christine.” “Yeah, right.” He sounded worse than the night she got him bombed in ’73. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she bit her lower lip. No help for it. She might not have an excess of blood at the moment, but based on the amount she had taken, there was enough to get them both up and running until she procured supplies. Cringing at the notion of the cheap thrill, she eased his head off her shoulder. “Damn it, we swore we’d never exchange blood.” “So don’t,” he murmured. “I’ll survive.” Maybe. Vamps didn’t usually look bleached out, unless of course they were albinos in their mortal lives. “Don’t be ridiculous, dude. C’mon, get it over with. I’m not going to have to explain to Dee, much less any damned nosy Circle members, why I let the head of the Circle die of exsanguination in my bed.” Or do anything in my bed. “You sure? Know you don’t want a blood-bond with me.” He blinked again, losing what little focus he had left. “Yeah, well, this is your own damned fault, Stuffy Britches. Shoulda stopped me from taking too much.” When he made no move

to take her wrist, she sighed, sharpened a fingernail, and drew it swiftly down her arm to open a vein. “Get it over with.” Copper odor blossomed, and his head snapped up. Typical vamp reaction to blood. He caught her wrist in his hand and took one last look before he sank his teeth into her. Chris’s head fell back with a soft moan, feeling the incredible rapture of the taking of her blood and let herself go. She might hate herself in the morning for getting a cheap thrill from her best friend, but no sense fighting the pleasure right now. **** Surrounded by Chrissy’s smell, her long yearned-for blood finally filling his mouth, Jordan almost lost his hold over the waking dream. Keeping it stable while she drank from him had been far more important than it was now, given her oblivion to everything beyond the thrill, but caution prompted him to keep the dream going. Not nearly so far gone as he’d given her to believe, he exalted in the taste of a blood-mage for the first time in over a century. So rare, so incredibly strong. Over the centuries, he’d killed hundreds of young ones, draining them so he didn’t lose their precious blood to death, but nothing in the world compared to the heady brew of a mage-born, much less a blood-mage, in their prime. Forcing his thoughts to focus, he fought the incoming torrent of her sense of self. With blood came memories, another reason he’d kept hold of the waking dream while she drank. If not for that, she’d have seen his memories rather than the illusory ones of Anthony, and the gig would have been up right then. With her inexperience at sharing blood, which he expected, her memories flowed freely, and he sorted through them quickly, finding the one he wanted most to review: her conversion by the mysterious Michael Hampton. No sire left their child unprotected, untutored, yet every piece of information he gathered on Chrissy said hers had done precisely that. The sight, smell and taste of a Boston tavern in 1752 shimmered through his mind’s eye. Unkempt colonials with their poor hygiene surrounded him. Disgusting creatures indeed, even before they threw the Empire’s generosity back in its teeth. Chrissy came looking for a sire in such a place as this? She approached a man, slight yet tall. They exchanged a few words, and then the stranger, identified in the conversation as

Michael, led her out the tavern door and into the dark night beyond. Jordan froze the memory as the man stood in the last rim of light from the oil lanterns and studied his features. Definitely resembled the bloke from his hunt in Canada. Eyes narrowed, he studied the image. While he recognized Michael, something didn’t feel right about the entire memory. Nothing overt, just a general sense of wrongness. He filed it away for later contemplation and submerged himself entirely in the uncensored stream of memories. One never knew what one might pick up from a stray thought. Anything that might be of use since he doubted she’d let him back in her head so easily in the future after this. **** Chris whimpered when his fangs slid out of her arm, ending the tingling pleasure that spiraled through her body abruptly. She licked her lips, squirming a little on his lap. He still clearly felt the aftermath, and she winced at the notion of what pressed up against her. He might be a man, but did she really want to feel that particular portion of him? Big time hell no to that. Damn it all, until the arousal went away, she would be miserable. Even were she inclined to hit on Stuffy Britches, the bet forestalled that. Stupid, stupid me, she thought. If not for putting it in the binding curse, she could sneak into her shower and risk losing if MacNaught caught her at it. His breath tickled her arm as he breathed, licking the last trace of blood from the tender skin. Nerves fired, and she squirmed again. The arm around her back tightened, and he nipped the inner part of her elbow. Sensation slithered through her body, zinging straight to her core. “Okay, knock it off, big guy. Go back to Dee.” “Why, Chrissy, I can’t go near her any more, as per our arrangement.” In the dim light she stiffened at the distinctly British tone and stared down at his head. As she watched, the dark blond hair changed to a much lighter golden hue, and the general frame of the man shrank somehow. A cold hand squeezed her chest, and she froze. Illusion? Shit, oh shit. It wasn’t Anthony holding her, Chris realized. She didn’t have a blood-bond with her best friend at all. It was Jordan.

Chapter Nine From ‘The Idiot’s Guide to Being a Vampire’ (Chapter 5, Miscellaneous Information): Long-range telepathic communication and tracking without technology is only possible in two ways: between a sire and child, or in the case of a blood-bond. The latter comes about from an almost total exchange of blood between two vampires. Be warned: just like conversion, once done, a blood-bond cannot be revoked, even if whatever relationship prompted it goes south.

Arousal left behind by the blood exchange flashed into horror, and she stared into Jordan’s green eyes as he sat up. He was a freakin’ blood-mage? Sweet God above. “What the hell?” “That, my dear, would be a waking dream.” He wiped a stray drop of blood from the corner of his mouth and licked it from his thumb. “One of my best efforts, if I do say so.” “A waking dream?” Not illusion then, but dream magic? She knew exactly what a waking dream was, but usually the recipient fell into a stupor, as if daydreaming. She couldn’t deny the faint impression of a link, for lack of a better word, forming in the back of her mind. The blood exchange was real. But Jordan was a dreamwalker, too? Had she gone round the bend to Crazy-Town? “Anthony was never here, was he?” “No. The old man is still north, no doubt panting over Athdara like a fool.” Oh lord. She’d called Jordan Señor Psycho and a pompous jackass. Hands trembling, she reached up to feel her throat for a scar. Had the whole thing been a dream? The assault, everything? A thick, ropy scar met her touch, so unless he continued maintaining some aspect of the dream, at least that part was real. “You ba, ah, asshole.”

“Oh come now! I save your life, and you complain?” Triumph, smug satisfaction oozed from his every pore, and she longed to score her nails over that confident face, put gaping wounds on it he’d not soon blow off. Given she didn’t think she could win if she got into a brawl right then, she leaped off his lap and backed away. “What purpose did this, any of this, serve?” “Earlier, because you might be stupid and refuse my assistance when I found you drowning in your own blood,” he said coolly, leaning his weight back on his hands. “This most recent, because I wanted a blood-bond with you and didn’t care to wait until you lost our bet.” Her nails sank into her palms. The world tinted red until she spun and slammed into her bathroom. The heavy mirror mounted over the sink rattled ominously. If she stayed, she’d say or do something incredibly stupid. The only thing that kept her from stomping back out and decking him was the satisfaction of knowing about the bet included in the binding curse. He had her blood now, but he’d better not think he would worm out of the bet so easily. “I won’t lose, you dipshit. Count on it! You want in my bed, you’ll have to beg for the right.” Through the closed door, he said, “Time will tell. Do hurry and wash up. Dried blood smells dreadful, and we have a lot to accomplish tonight. I want to know who attacked you. It didn’t come through in your memories.” In the midst of stripping her shirt off, she froze. She couldn’t bring to mind her attacker. Only the words “Ares sends his regrets.” Well, that and the burning pain as the faceless person slashed her throat. After she yanked off and discarded her shirt, she turned to stare in the mirror. As her fingers revealed earlier, a thick, reddish scar blazed against her pale skin. It might fade over the years, but would never go away entirely. Potentially mortal wounds sucked like that. She tossed her shirt over the edge of the bathtub, catching sigh of her slippers Ela and Phant, along with her stinky, blood-covered clothes. Poor little slippers. She frowned. They’d been on her feet when she went down. He’d changed her clothes entirely? That struck

her as incredibly thoughtful, a far cry from what she would have expected from the bastard. “Jordan, am I actually awake?” “Yes, Chrissy. This is real. Meet me downstairs when you’re ready.” “When I’m ready,” she muttered under her breath and flipped the faucet in her shower. Damn the man. Damn him to hell and back. She didn’t want a blood-bond with Jordan. This demanded vengeance. Shoving the binding curse in his face after she won would only be the beginning. It might take a while, but she’d make him pay for this. **** Believing himself prepared for whatever offensive shot she came out with, Jordan gawked when she breezed into her den with a chipper smile. “So, we’re both blood-mages! Isn’t that special? What are the chances?” No anger, no upset? What the devil was this? He found himself speechless for the second time in two days. How dare she not be angry? A fight might just get him into her sweet pussy. While he’d relaxed some since the exchange, hunger for more than just her blood lurked, and pissing her off was about the only way to drag her into bed. She certainly wouldn’t buy the seduction route at the moment. Or so he’d thought. She cackled and turned in a small circle, studying the contents of the room carefully while she talked. “Pretty damned lucky for me that clause got thrown into the curse, ain’t it? You can’t turn me over to the Circle.” “No, but there’s nothing saying I can’t take care of the matter myself,” he said evenly. Not that he would, given the tangled talents issue. He probably should fill her in on some of the details on that. Especially the death part. He wasn’t entirely certain she didn’t plan to do him some permanent bodily harm for forging a blood-bond without her permission, current cheery demeanor notwithstanding. Perhaps especially in light of her current mood. She must be up to something. He would be, if she had used this sort of tactic. Chrissy tsked and sailed out again. “That’s a big, fat negative. Binding curses go past death, so you can’t ever tell anyone about me. You kill me without apparent just cause, and Anthony’ll go apeshit all over your sorry ass.”

This conversation was not going the way he pictured it should. He jumped to his feet to chase after her. Where was the cringing, the fear of retaliation at having her secret exposed to him that he expected? Worst of all, she might have a point. To avoid having to think further on that particular topic, and to buy time to regroup, he asked, “Who attacked you?” He caught the flicker of uncertainty that flitted across her face as she stopped in her main-floor office to peer around. “I, I don’t know. I feel like I should, can hear a voice, can’t even tell if it’s male or female, telling me that Ares sends his regrets. It’s somehow all garbled.” That sounded eerily like his own encounter with the Aristocrats in London. No memory of their faces, only blobs. Until then, he’d attributed the fuzzy memory to his injuries. “No idea on who Ares is? And, if I might inquire, what are we doing?” Her eyebrows drew together, and her body stilled. Jordan leaned forward at the indication she’d thought of something. “You’re a dream-walker, right? The waking dream suggests that. And you’re Malcolm Kerrich, right?” “I was once Malcolm, yes. Not precisely a dream-walker, but I do have talents in that direction.” The full explanation would take too long, and he didn’t want her distracted. She crossed to the desk and dug through a mound of haphazardly stacked papers as he talked. “Why?” “Suffice to say, I don’t know a lot about it. I’m a dreamwalker, or so I’ve been led to believe, given my mentor couldn’t teach me. I know it’s possible to access peoples’ subconscious minds. Can you alter memories through dreams?” “I can’t, but a true dream-walker can, yes.” He set aside his innate preference to conceal weaknesses or inability. Nothing else worked with the annoying woman, so he’d give honesty a shot. At least the admission cut through his having to prompt her to admit where her talents lay. He wanted to get her trained. He wouldn’t pass up the opportunity dumped in his lap. A dream-walker was a powerful ally to have. “It’s difficult and requires a very strong grasp on your gifts to do it. And what the devil are you about, Chrissy?” The last he asked her back as she once again darted from the room, this time heading to the kitchen. “I’m taking inventory, you dipshit. Whoever jumped me must have had a motive, and theft’s the

most likely thing I can think of. Clearly she wasn’t talking about you.” Chrissy barely glanced at the kitchen, moving on toward the stairs leading into her basement. Their new connection didn’t let him traipse willy-nilly into her head, more the pity. And so he waited. She stopped at coming to her workout room. “Maybe this Ares is who she was talking about.” “Would you care to share?” Patience, he cautioned the inner beast. Yes, torture would drag the information out of her, but also might alienate her. “Who is ‘she’?” “Xanthea.” He groaned silently. The last thing he needed was the Witch sticking her pointy nose in his business. She stayed out of the matters of the world on every other issue, why this one? “What day is it?” “Almost dawn on Monday. You took nearly a full day to surface. Anyway, now about the Witch?” “She was at the airport.” He listened as she skimmed over the Witch’s visit. Interesting indeed, Xanthea coming out of seclusion now. No one knew what he and Chrissy were, and there might be yet another dream-walker he hadn’t known about? Maybe age really was catching up with him. “She definitely did not refer to me,” he said. “I can access the dream-passage, and use waking dreams, but something went wrong when my sire converted me. I retain some of my seer tendencies. It’s how I happened to return in time to keep you from expiring.” She lifted her head and stared over at him, shock clear. Finally! Some sign she wasn’t off in her own little world. “Oh, thanks for that by the way. I think I forgot to say it.” She shook off her earlier bemusement over the lost memory and glanced into her office. “You touch my keyboard? It’s in the wrong place.” How on earth did she remember actual placement of a commonly moved item like a keyboard? “Aye.” He still didn’t care for her abrupt cessation of hostility regarding his trick. That took half the fun out of it, when she didn’t argue. He hated when women didn’t accept he was right, end of story. He enjoyed arguing with Chrissy. “Hrmph, fine. Maybe Ares is this dream-walker she was talking about. Though, from what you’re saying, he couldn’t have just come into his talents. He’d need a lot of experience, right?”

“More than most mortal mage-born claim. It’s always been a delicate balance for those with that gift. Can they learn how to use their powers effectively before advancing years weaken them to the point such knowledge does them no good? As blood-magi, you and I don’t have the age problem. With practice and teaching, you would do quite well. Based on what I saw of the spell you sent into the old man’s company, your gift is very strong.” While most barriers remained in her mind while she healed, some hadn’t, and he’d perused what he could. Her gifts far outshone his mother’s, and Catriona Kerrich had been the reigning dreamwalker of her day. A strange look crossed her face, gone before he was certain he’d seen it at all, and he wondered at it, but filed it away for further consideration later when she picked up the conversation again. Chrissy took one more careful look at the office and trotted back for the stairs. “So we’re looking at another blood-mage out there that both of us somehow missed?” “It’s possible, albeit unlikely.” He sighed and rubbed his temples. His head hurt, not just from the use of his gift for so long during the exchange, but he was tired. Really tired. While he liked the combative nature of Chrissy in general, she wasn’t the most relaxing chit. Mayhap taking up residence wasn’t one of his better ideas, but leaving wasn’t an option, especially now that someone had tried to kill her. **** Chris dug into her jeans pocket and pulled out a smashed piece of gum. The wrapping still mostly covered the stick, so she peeled it and popped it in her mouth. She was hungry. Gum kept the hunger at bay, at least for a little bit until she could go out and hunt. So far, everything looked fine in the townhouse. She’d checked the second floor before coming down. Only the safe was left at this point. “So the question is, who is Ares and why did he attack me? Or possibly, send someone else to do it? Is he connected to the Aristocrats?” She halted in the front hall, rather than keep moving. Jordan was started to look annoyed at chasing after her. “Have you aggravated anyone else of late, Chrissy?” “I haven’t done jack squat yet as far as the Aristocrats are concerned, and I keep to myself most of the time.” She shrugged,

staring up at her ceiling, and realization smacked her in the face. “Oh shit. He’s a dream-walker.” “We’ve established that as our going belief, yes. However, not all of us live in your head. Would you please explain your sudden thought?” “Anthony said there was a traitor on the Council or Circle, because how else would someone know who members of the Circle were, in order to kill them off? He thought he had a good suspect but then changed his mind.” Jordan muttered something under his breath that she didn’t catch. A bit louder, he said, “Yes, I’m well aware of his suspicions. While my reputation has its advantages, I grow rather tired of being blamed when things go wrong.” She bit back the obvious retort. “If there’s a dream-walker on the loose, working with the Aristocrats, it might not be betrayal at all. I can keep several doors on my passage, so someone who’s trained could easily have doors enough to climb into everyone in the Circle’s head, right? Still, why come after me and why now? I’m no threat. I don’t know how to use my gifts.” “Let’s go with the assumption Ares is the dream-walker Xanthea mentioned to you, and that he’s tied into the Aristocrats.” Jordan rubbed the back of his neck and started pacing, coiled tension evident in every well-measured step he took. Odd, the little ways they were alike. Neither of them could keep still when they were thinking about something. “Presumably, any plans I’ve made up ‘til now have been compromised. Same with the old man.” “You haven’t slept since you came here, unless it was while I was healing. So what made him decide to kill me? He knew you were both coming to me. Maybe he checked out my dreams or something, and because I’m a dream-walker, however untrained, he deemed me a threat?” She wasn’t sure how valid her argument sounded and looked up him for some sort of confirmation on the matter. He peered at her, clearly surprised. “You don’t guard your dreams? Why not?” “Why would I do that? Prior to Xan’s visit, as far as I knew, I was the last dream-walker, so no one was left to wander into my head. Why expend energy when it wasn’t necessary?” That, and she didn’t know how to do it. She didn’t want to admit just how inexperienced she was when it came to using dream magic.

He grunted to acknowledge the point as he returned to pacing. As she watched, Jordan absently massaged the side of his head. It was the third time in the past several minutes he’d done so, and she wondered at the gesture. It wasn’t like him. “You need to, and then plug the leak by closing the doors for the rest of the Circle. We can’t plot if he climbs in at will to discover our plans.” Chris considered the notion, taking time to blow another bubble. This time when it popped, the sticky stuff caught her bangs. She worked to peel it out of her hair. The distraction eased her annoyance with his arrogant assumption she would be willing to help the very body that would execute her if they found out what she was. Just where did he think she could possibly have learned that stuff? “Two problems. One, I don’t know if it’s possible for me to close anyone else’s door.” He sniffed. “Of course it is. While you were unconscious, I contacted my assistant in London. He’s sending a package over to us via courier. It should help. I rooted about in your head while you were healing, and while your shields were adequate, they didn’t keep everything secret.” It took every ounce of self-control not to cringe at the notion of him crawling around in her head. She doubted he’d found the information about her insertion of the bet into the curse, but one never knew. “You’ve received little training in your gifts because only another dream-walker can teach you.” Fair enough. Chris nodded. No point in denying it, right? “That needs to change. I may straddle the line between the two classes of psy-mage, but I have the working knowledge and enough of basic skills as a dream-walker that I can teach you.” She squinted at him, surprised by the offer of tutoring. At first, she thought the fading of color from his cheeks was a trick of the light, but as he continued to pace, she became more certain. “Based on your program for getting into SRI, you’ve got talent, but you need more … more than—” Jordan shook his head, and Chris rose, observing him closely. He stopped by the front door. The last of the color drained away from him when he screamed, collapsing with his hands pressed against his temples. He collapsed, hands clasped against his temples, and went still.

“What the hell?” Leaping to her feet, she loomed over him and nudged him with her foot. This better not be some whopper of a trick to initiate a fight. “Jordan?” No response. “That can’t be good.” Tapping her fingers against her cheek, she scowled and headed for the kitchen. She didn’t know what she’d find, given his claim of her being out of blood. That might have just been a trick. He’d been pretending to be Anthony, for God’s sake, and like any nitwitted moron, she’d bought into it. Damn, that was a sneaky trick. One she intended to learn. She confirmed the veracity of his statement when she opened the fridge. The overhead light flickered once, twice, and then the kitchen plunged into darkness. Chris groaned, only then pulling herself out of her annoyance with Jordan’s trick, and mild concern over his faint, to realize wind lashed the trees outside. It howled as she stood there in the dark. That would be Tropical Storm Rina. What next, Atlantis rising? Storm warnings and watches closed all the blood banks, which meant she couldn’t go to procure supplies from them. So, that just left her her horses, who served as her emergency supplies whenever the banks shut down unexpectedly. Returning to the front hall, Chris prodded Jordan again. He didn’t move. Muttering a few choice phrases she wouldn’t dare let escape if he were conscious, she tossed him over her shoulder and stomped up the stairs to the guest room. Vamp strength: it did a body good. He’d put her in bed; the least she could do was return the favor. She still didn’t know why he had collapsed. After dumping him indecorously on top, she dashed out a quick note about going for supplies. By leaving, she didn’t have to sit around and stew about why he fainted. “Dee would thank me if I killed you, you know.” She paused in the doorway to look back. “I should, especially after you tricked me into a blood-bond.” That wouldn’t be fair though. Despite Jordan’s unsavory tendencies, he was sporting with her, provided she didn’t count the little burial thing in 1820. He might be a sadistic son of a bitch, with too much emphasis on breaking things she didn’t want broken, but he

never did it without warning. He could have killed her a hundred times over, since he could sneak up on her. Satisfied with her flimsy justification for letting him live, she headed outside into the storm, only to come up short when she discovered her truck was not in the drive. “What the hell, Jordan? You were supposed to …” Well, he had saved her life, and if he’d been in a hurry, flying probably would have gotten him back from Tampa faster than driving. Hopefully Donovan hadn’t had it towed. She’d have to retrieve it once Jordan was awake.

Chapter Ten From Public Service Announcement issued by Head Liaison MacKechnie: Warning: if a normally rational vampire abruptly turns seductive, especially if there has been no previous history of desire between you, chances are they’re hungry. Walk, do not run, if you wish to keep all your blood in your veins. If you run, we will chase, and you’ll be dependent on our good nature to stop feeding before we drain you dry. We don’t mean to, but it’s instinct, just like were-canines can’t seem to stop humping everything that moves when they reach puberty.

Vignettes slammed into his mind’s eye, one after another. Sixteen brutal murders, culminating with the slaughter of Fatima Sayeed. Blurred figures, save for one brilliant flash in the mirror where Jordan saw a medium-height, slight, young man. No fangs, teeth clearly visible as he threw back his head to laugh as one of the blobs sliced through Fatima’s throat. The world warped around him; the view of his fellow Circle member’s death shattered into waves crashing upon the sand. Gray sun shone from high in the sky. Out on the water he saw the same young man, wrapped in the black neoprene of a wetsuit, as he skimmed easily along a wave on its way to the beach. Not a beach he recognized. Pure white sand with only a few shells. People mingled, and cars lined the beach, backed up against the sand dunes. Wind blew overhead. A kite drifted lazily in the light gray sky. Snippets of conversation reached him, and he recognized all the bloody American accents. So, somewhere in the States. He didn’t find himself particularly surprised, given he knew several of those who’d attacked him were American as well. Jordan’s head ached as the dreamscape faded, bringing to mind the series of headaches that ultimately ended in his extended trip into a vision. His control word hadn’t been enough to break free.

Soft fabric lay under his cheek, rather than the cold tile he expected, given where he collapsed. He hadn’t been consciously trying to suppress the vision, but so wrapped up in their conversation, he had subconsciously fought it off until it would be denied no longer. Jordan cautiously opened his eyes and found only darkness. He made out a shape to his left, the dresser where his sketchpad always lay. That placed him in his bedroom in her townhouse. He didn’t sense anyone around when he extended his thoughts. Where did she take herself off to while he was out, vulnerable to anyone who wandered by? He reached out with his thoughts into the newly forged bloodbond with her. “Chrissy?” The first thing that leaped through their link was misery. Cold, wet, misery. He took note of the wind howling outside then. The predicted storm he’d read about before flying to the States? “What happened to you, MacNaught? You scream like a girl.” He most certainly did not. “You try having your skull all but blown out and see whether you carp about it. Where are you?” “Be with you in a few. Ran out to get a bite since my cupboards are bare. Thought you might have fainted from hunger or some crap like that.” Jordan smiled into the darkness at the mention of sustenance. After saving her, and the blood exchange, he definitely needed food. The single bag he’d found earlier hadn’t been nearly enough. As he pushed up from his prone position, he felt her presence enter the townhouse. Relieved the world didn’t spin, he stood and cracked his neck. Yes, much better than before. Now to figure out whom in blazes he’d seen in his vision. “Given your occasionally nefarious work, do you have some sort of facial recognition software?” She didn’t respond, so he left the bedroom and made his way down the hall. He found the quiet unnatural. He always left a radio or some other noise inducer running at home. Having lived through many centuries where the only noises available came from nature, he didn’t much care for utter silence now. The door to her room gaped open, and he caught a flash of pale skin in the gloom as she disappeared into her closet. “Chrissy?” ****

Chris heaved a loud sigh to convey her annoyance. Geez, couldn’t the man wait a few minutes to let her dry off and get warm? Not much more than that, because she’d gorged on her horses and really wanted to get rid of the excess. Her appetite was light for a member of the Blood, so carrying around extra for Jordan didn’t sit well on many levels. “Yes, I have something that would work. Why? What happened?” When he spoke, it was from the doorway of her expansive closet. “I collapsed because I resisted a vision when it tried to happen. They won’t be denied.” A vision? He’d mentioned something about straddling the line between seer and dream-walker, and a vision before of her dying. The darkness provided her some form of protection in her naked state, though there was enough ambient light that he could make out her outline. She was drenched after being out in the storm for the run to and from her ranch house. Her tiger’s fur only provided warmth while she remained in that form. Now, though, she was soggy and cold. Under normal circumstances, she dressed down or outrageous, most recently the trampy schoolgirl outfit she’d worn to the Society for the Advancement of Non-Human Rights’ 80th Anniversary Bash. If people thought her weird, they didn’t look further than that. Since Jordan already knew the one secret she tried so hard to hide and distract people from discovering, she plucked out a white Trina Turk shell and navy knit pants. It was kind of liberating, to choose nice clothes even if someone else was around, especially Jordan. She shouldn’t feel the need to compete with his now-dead wife, but it irked her that he probably found her lacking. She didn’t care to be found inferior by anyone, especially when her gifts probably made her the equal or superior in power to most people. “You could wait outside.” She didn’t waste her breath pointing out her naked state. He certainly didn’t respect the boundaries of common decency. “I could. The view’s better in here.” She rolled her eyes, flung dry clothes over her shoulder, and went to leave the closet. He didn’t move, gaze drinking her in and lingering on her breasts. “Dude, c’mon. Let’s not get distracted. You were going to tell me about your vision.”

Jordan took a deep breath, leaning forward as he did. “You smell good. Delicious, one might even say.” “Yeah, well, let me get dressed and drain off some of the excess for you.” It might hurt more, but she didn’t want him drinking from the source again. If he did, she might weaken and ask him for sex to relieve the arousal this time. She wasn’t big into denial of pleasure. “That seems a great waste of time and effort.” He caught her shoulders and pulled her close, crushing her clothes between them. “You went to all that trouble. You should get something out of the deal.” Goosebumps rose over her bare skin as he breathed against her neck. He was so warm. She debated pushing him away, but instead she leaned into him, absorbing some of the heat from his body. “No, ah, no trouble. I wanted to see the boys anyway. Focus here. Your vision?” The words sounded hollow as he trailed teasing fingers down her side while steering her until her back hit the doorframe. He pressed a kiss to her chin, lips light and warm. “You’re a vision, Chrissy.” This time her shiver had nothing to do with cold. Licking her lips, she considered the options. Her hormones screamed “let’s party”; common sense told her to move away. She did neither, instead remaining still, fingers curled loosely around his forearms. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re really into the drowned-rat look. C’mon, work with me. What did you see?” Jordan nipped at her earlobe, the sharp sting of pain mixing easily with the currents of desire rising through her body. “Do you really want to talk?” Well, when you put it that way. Yanking at the last shred of her self-control, the bloating making it much easier, she dissolved and reformed in the bathroom. She wanted him to make the move for sex first, but now wasn’t right. If he really did have a face to put to one of the Aristocrats, they shouldn’t waste time. The little voice in her head didn’t miss the opportunity to harass her. You’re just stubborn. Losing now has no consequences, you know. Chris stifled the voice and ignored the tendrils of lust still tickling over her skin. “You’re an artist. Get me a sketch while I get

your drink poured, MacNaught, and I’ll see what my computers can dig up.” “You’re a dreadful tease, Chrissy, smelling so good and naked to boot.” He paused in the doorway to the bathroom and glanced in. “Were it not for the vision, I might not be so inclined to acquiesce.” She snorted and waited for him to leave before dropping the robe and clambering into her clothes. One of these days, she needed to learn to shift like a vampire. The whole no-clothes thing sucked dehydrated blood. Clearly he knew how, and he was a blood-mage. Maybe they could work a trade of some sort. **** After rubbing her wrist to encourage the flesh to knit back together quickly, Chris carried two full glasses down to the computer lab. Most people kept generators to run their fridges and lights during a power out. She kept one to keep her computer network going. She needed to check on the progress of her SRI search while she waited for him to join her. Her mouse was clean. She scowled at the device, understanding the implication. Lord Prissy-Pants had used her computer. There was a perfectly good machine on the main floor of the townhouse. She needed to make it clear this room was off limits. Then again, he’d cleaned up the spot where she nearly died. Not a trace of blood remained, so she’d cut him some slack this time. Curiosity prompted her to enter a search to see what he’d done in her downtime. Finding the search on the Bureau’s database and the entry to Michael sent a frisson down her spine. Why would he care about her long-missing sire? It made no sense. Chris frowned when she skimmed through the random tidbits the search had sent back. How odd. It looked like someone had broken into SRI. Just a faint impression, and since her search was aimed specifically at finding a thief, it registered as only a blip. But someone had definitely gotten into SRI and dumped information. Unlikely to be a virus, since the IT department would pick things like that up on as a matter of course. Scribbling a note to herself to check into it once her search for the thief finished, she continued reading through the compiled information. No luck so far. A few minutes later, Jordan walked into the computer room, and she feigned interest in her overloaded email inbox as he set the

sketch down and retrieved the first glass. He said lightly, “My way would have been more pleasurable.” “Drink, or I’m going to deck you.” Damned singlemindedness of a hungry vamp. “Your hunger is obviously making you crazier than normal.” “I said nothing that wasn’t true.” He settled next to her and drained the glass in the time it took her to pick up the sketch. “Please, tell me you don’t intend to use any horse I might one day forfeit to you like that.” “That’s Pierce!” She recognized the clean lines of the sketched face instantly. “Pierce Townsend.” The lazy jungle cat on the prowl on display vanished immediately, and Jordan stared at her, straightening in his chair as he exchanged glasses. “You know him?” “Yeah, definitely. He taught me to surf a couple summers ago. A bunch of us were over in Cocoa Beach for a party, and when he found out me and De, er, me and someone else hadn’t ever surfed, he dragged us out into the water.” She didn’t want to bring Dee up. “Can you locate him? Is he one of us?” Chris nodded. “It shouldn’t be too hard. Chances are he’s still near Orlando. And no, he’s a shifter of some sort.” Tapping her fingers, she tilted her head to the side. “Do you think he’s involved?” He nodded shortly, and began on the second glass of blood. The warmth, or at least lack of psycho-Jordan, she’d grown used to over the past couple of days was muted now. “Without a doubt.” “What did you see?” “He killed a member of the Circle, laughing as he did so.” Rather than watch his face change to the cold one that gave her heebie-jeebies, she turned back to the computer and opened a browser to get to one of the people-tracking sites she used. “Don’t you think it’s weird that your vision was so specific? I thought visions were subject to interpretation and all that crap.” “Visions can be, especially if prompted by spell-casting. Mine, on the occasions I’ve had them as a member of the Blood, are not. They are always very clear and usually involve me in some manner. Mayhap not directly, like Mr. Townsend’s actions didn’t affect me beyond their effect on the Circle, but there is always a purpose behind them.”

“Ah.” Seers were weird and creepy. “Let me see what I can find out about him. Are you certain your vision isn’t metaphorical or something? If I take you to him, and he’s not involved, then you’re going to hurt an innocent man.” “My vision of him killing the member of the Circle is as clear as the one I had of you on the verge of death, Christine.” Abruptly, she missed being Chrissy. She typed in her search parameters and hit enter. It would only take a few minutes to gather the information she wanted. It wasn’t like getting through the security at SRI. “All right. Assuming he’s still in the state, how do you want to go? Planes’ll probably be messed up for a day or two while they clear up debris. Airports close down when a storm blows by.” “Would it be far to drive?” “Depending on where he is, yes. And I don’t have my truck. You were supposed to bring it home.” “I was a bit more concerned with getting back to save your life. I wouldn’t drive that gas-guzzling monstrosity if it stood between me and certain annihilation. Why don’t you drive something more efficient, like a hybrid?” “Over your twice-dead body,” she said. She hated hybrids. They were too confining for her. “Even assuming I can get my truck back today, given it’s almost dawn, you’re not going to be able to get to him until tonight.” “You keep saying ‘me’, rather than ‘we’. You’ll accompany me.” His tone didn’t invite argument. Rather than do that, her first inclination, she went back to the bits and pieces of data turned up by the SRI search. Ah hah! The formula for Achilles, which Anthony suspected the Aristocrats were using to neutralize vampire powers, was one of the things, and she nodded to herself. Good, he’d be happy once she got this to him, but she intended to hold onto it until she knew who’d taken the damn thing. The speakers beeped, indicating the information waited for her, and she started to flip screens back to her search for Townsend, only stopping at the last second. “Where was this Circle person killed?” “Why?” “If he wasn’t anywhere near there around the time in question, I’m not giving you his location.” She opened a new screen and

swallowed hard. Despite what Anthony thought, she wasn’t a great hacker. She used contacts for some of the heaviest lifting and only risked herself personally on sensitive inquiries. A friend would be able to get into Customs for her faster than she could, with less chance of being caught. “Fatima died in Qatar, two weeks ago.” “Since they have no reason to expect we might have a lead on any of them, they’d have no reason to travel abroad under anything other than their own names. I’ll do some poking around and see if he’s made any out of the country trips. If Pierce was anywhere near the Middle East, you can go see him.” “We can, you mean.” “No way, Jordan. You’re the, um—” Calling him a psychopath, murderer, and any other number of completely valid names probably wouldn’t go over very well right now, given the mood. Never mind it was perfectly true. “You’re the one experienced in handling less-than-friendly interrogations. I’d just be in the way.” “Liar. You have a talent for it.” “I most certainly do not. I wear the white hat, remember, one of the genuine good guys, not the one only involved because he’s worried about his damned legacy of murder and torture.” A longburied memory nagged at her, a time when she might have been a bit less good. A violent yank from Jordan on her chair spun her to face him just as she closed out of her window on the computer. “Off the top of my head, I can think of twenty-six men and eight women who would disagree with that assessment.” He paused, seeming to think about that before he continued. “Oh wait, I don’t believe they’re in any condition to argue, given they’re dead.” Heat crept into her cheeks. “You forget, my dear, I know exactly what you’re capable of. I still have the scars to prove it.” “That was, um, different.” Totally lame, but she didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t think about that period if she could help it. In the aftermath of being buried alive, she’d channeled all her fury into hunting down the Aristocrats, with only her friend Verissa’s direct help and occasional, indirect support from Stuffy Britches and Xanthea. Only Jordan and

Angel had survived, the latter pulling Jordan from his burning townhouse when Christine had left him to die. “I fail to see how. Call it what you will, you went after my people because you were tired of seeing us cut through Society at our whim. No one else dared. You were nothing more than a fledgling, and you almost single-handedly took the Aristocrats down. You couldn’t have done that without quite a bit of ruthlessness on your part. And that is why you’re coming with me.” “Not that person any more.” She shoved his hand off her chair to turn back to the computer. Desperate to change the subject rather than let her thoughts linger in the madness-filled months, she asked, “While I track down Pierce’s movements, how did you figure out what I am?” “The way Talen, the mage-born from the club, zeroed in on you confirmed what I’d suspected for some time.” **** With some satisfaction, he noted the pallor that entered her cheeks. Good, wariness at long last. After nearly two hundred years interacting with Chrissy, Jordan knew she would balk if he pressed the issue of her Aristocrat hunts. She seemed absurdly embarrassed by them. Now that she would have to face the reality that she was stuck with him, with no escape he could think of, he’d chip away at the “good girl” persona until she blossomed into the woman she could be, the one glimpsed ever so briefly in London. His ongoing interest in her had been born in those hunts of hers, to see how far a minion of Anthony’s might go into darkness. She had succeeded in killing his people because he’d taken steps to be certain no one else realized who was behind the Aristocrats’ deaths. He’d wanted her to have free reign to travel down the road of destruction. His mistake came in misjudging the timing of her intended assault on him. Even if he turned her from the old man, she’d still have her damnable conscience. With some help, she might be able to bury the conscience and have more fun in life. The past twenty-four hours with her unconscious, leaving him free to examine her surroundings uncensored, had proved enlightening. To his surprise, he’d discovered they were much alike, though with very different outlooks.

The moment of shock passed, and she turned back to the computer. She tapped away on the keyboard, and he finished the second glass of blood. It tasted of horse and Chrissy. Unusual combination, but exquisite to his palate. “Why would he tell you? And what do you mean ‘suspected’?” “Given your parents, do you know the phrase ‘tangled talents’?” “Nope. Doesn’t sound good though.” She didn’t know the half of it. How much do I tell her? Everything? As little as possible? Which option served him best and wouldn’t prompt either argument or distract from her task? “On rare occasions, mage-born can accidentally bind their talents together.” The tapping on the keys slowed only for the briefest second. His own parents had been tangled, so he knew more about the condition than most mage-born. He cringed at the notion that he might turn into his father, disgustingly wrapped up in a woman until finally put out of his misery. That wouldn’t happen to him. He wouldn’t object if Chrissy succumbed though. She might stop arguing so much. Maybe. “For quite some time, I’d suspected that had happened to us. I confirmed it earlier the evening we went to A’Jin’Cor.” He truly hoped she wouldn’t ask how he’d confirmed it. He wanted to see if she realized he’d been sending her waking dreams without being told, and if so, how long it would take her. Again, he witnessed that almost imperceptible pause on the keyboard. She was listening. Still focused on the screen, she said, “You put the condition in the curse because you didn’t want your ass exposed.” “Quite.” “Give me the CliffsNotes version of what we’re dealing with. You like to hear yourself talk.” She thought he lacked charm? “The abridged version is as follows. Those with tangled talents, when in contact, find their gifts enhanced. Should they stay apart physically for too long, approximately eleven years, their innate magic turns inward, ultimately resulting in insanity, followed by death if the situation is not alleviated.” “Hence the 1870s incident.”

Even with all his self-control, Jordan couldn’t repress the shudder the short statement evoked. They hadn’t crossed paths until six months past the ten-year mark because he’d misinterpreted a vision he’d had of her whereabouts. The madness creeping into his psyche until he found her had fostered his initial suspicion about her origins. “So, how does it get undone?” She hit send on an email and rested her hands in her lap, still not looking at him. “Don’t you dare tell me it’s not possible. I’m not spending the rest of my existence tracking your sorry British backside down every ten years.” He hissed softly, bristling at the insult. “Scot, not Brit, you damnable Colonial.” “Blah blah, it’s all the same gloomy island. Do we have to visit Mount Doom in Mordor? Blow up the Death Star? What?” Ten days in the grave for insulting his mother. Chrissy had never called his mother a bitch again after he buried her. Maybe the same trick would work regarding his home. With an effort, Jordan set aside the all-too-pleasurable contemplation of retaliation and sighed. “If you find a way, let me know.” “Anything else you need to tell me about this idiotic crapfest?” He should probably tell her about the death issue. She might consider death an option to solve the problem. Despite her protests, killing came naturally to her. Chrissy’s gaze narrowed, and she glanced at him, sapphire eyes glittering in the dim light. “What? Spit it out already.” Maybe if he phrased it the right way, she wouldn’t hit the roof. So, he posed it in a positive light for her. “I can’t ever kill you, even if I wanted to one day. Not without killing myself at the same time. You die, I die.” For a moment, he thought his excellent point won the day. Then, redness obscured the normal white of her eyes, and the gymnasium mirror shattered.

Chapter Eleven From Mage-Born Magic Theory 101, FGCU: Professor: A focus is precisely what it sounds like, a small item that allows a magicwielder to concentrate their power. Doing so allows them to concentrate their magic and accomplish tasks that would normally be at, or just beyond, the limits of what they can accomplish by themselves. Creating a focus is a basic skill that every mage-born learns, regardless of where their talents lie.

The moment verging on a blood-rage-worthy fury over, Chris winced at the cracked glass, her dagger buried in the center of the mirror’s backing. Still, better the mirror than Jordan. Maybe. “You took that well.” He tilted back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and folded his arms over his chest. “Rot, MacNaught!” She threw herself out of the chair. “That’s the last time I’m wasting good horse blood on you.” As she turned to stalk out of the basement to her den to kill a few hapless zombies or aliens, her computer beeped. To her surprise, she saw the icon for a new email and recognized Harlequin’s secure email address. That was fast, even for him. Dialing back her annoyance as she sat, she clicked on the email and scanned the contents. “Pierce’s living in Orlando still. You can either rent a vehicle, and drive yourself up there this evening or make flight arrangements once the airports open again.” If not for intense awareness of the need to present a calm façade for Jordan, she would have yelped upon reading the last several lines of Harlequin’s email. Oh shit. Do I tell him? While she tried to decide on the answer, she continued. “With the sun coming up, it’s too late for you to drive to Orlando this morning.” “Still with that ‘I’, rather than we. You will accompany me. Either because you will follow the dictates of a member of the Circle,

or because, according to the binding curse, you work for me. Take your choice as to why you do as you’re told, only do it.” Chris sighed and nodded, deciding to keep the details of Pierce’s travels beyond his trek to Qatar quiet. If she told Jordan where else the man had gone, he might explode, and she wanted a certain distance between them when he found out. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. It’s a lil’ over three hours to Orlando. If I’m going, we’re driving, and we can’t leave until tonight, and that’s assuming I can talk Donovan into sending my truck back.” Jordan ignored the jibe about abandoning her truck, saying only, “We need to wait for the delivery from my assistant anyway. I’m not letting that stay in other hands any longer than absolutely necessary.” “What’s in this package anyway?” “A few implements, and the entirety of my spell collection. Over the years, I’ve hunted mage-born for the Circle, and in days of yore, they used spell books. When there was something that interested me, I kept the books. Angel scanned them for me a few years back.” She frowned, considering that. “Angel didn’t know what you were?” “You’re the first person to know what I am in over eight hundred years. I only ever confided in the blood-mage I found to teach me how to shift, and, well, let’s just say I didn’t leave him in any condition to talk about it afterward.” He met her gaze, and for just a moment, she could have sworn the emotion that flickered over his face was desolate loneliness. She picked up on it only because she could thoroughly understand what it meant to deny who you were to everyone in your life. Chris shoved the disconcerting notion of having something so major in common with Jordan deep down in her mind and buried it, hopefully to never see the light of day again. The moment quickly passed as he said, “I’ve turned a profit, selling the occasional spell back to the mage-born over the centuries. There are spells in my collection that haven’t been cast since the Middle Ages, Chrissy, many of them dream-walker friendly.” Against her better judgment, he captured her interest with that statement. “Really?” “Mm-hm.”

“And you’re just going to let me look?” At what price? She didn’t ask the question. Didn’t need to, judging by the smug grin that surfaced on his face. “Oh, Chrissy, I want to do so much more than just let you look. With my assistance, you can develop into a phenomenal dreamwalker.” Actually use her gifts in more than a stumbling, fumbling fashion? The answer to the dreams she had never been able to admit to anyone, not even Anthony, was sitting there in the form of Jordan MacNaught? The universe had a twisted sense of humor. “Why?” “Two reasons. One, because I will use any tool that crosses my path to reach my goals. Your talents can go a long way toward making them happen.” Her stomach twisted uncomfortably at the notion of working on his behalf. She suspected he meant more than the Aristocrat menace. When he continued, the impression of intense loneliness returned. The pensiveness didn’t show on his face, except a faint glimmer in his eyes. He took her hand between his and caressed her palm. Familiar electricity zapped through her body, sending a tingle to her core. “Two, magic is meant to be used, and talents should never be wasted. Because of our laws, like me, you’ve buried what should be your crowning glory. With help, you can become so much more than you are.” Damn. He must have gotten a hell of a lot out of her head while she slept. She’d never been able to tell anyone how much she hated hiding her capabilities. “And, just like that, you’ll teach me? Can you?” “I’ll manage. The key to training a dream-walker is the dream passage. I can get it open.” He linked their fingers. “Say yes; let me teach you, Chrissy.” Chris nibbled at her lower lip. Such an odd look of hope on his face. How much of this façade could she trust? Did he really want to teach her, or was this all just some vast plan to hurt more people? She didn’t need a sadistic Miss Bliss on her hands. “This can’t be like the sparring session, where you’re trying to break something.”

The skin around his eyes crinkled, and he laughed softly. “No worries there. Battle is one thing, magic another. Especially magic like ours.” How did he manage to look so sincere? This couldn’t be real, had to be manipulation, and yet he seemed far more invested in the latter part of his answer, helping her to better her skills. The chance to be able to actually use what she had inside, rather than fumble through, seemed too good to be true. Better to establish boundaries before she said yes. “What do you want in exchange?” Some of the light died out of him, a tiny slumping of the shoulders. “You don’t trust me.” Part of her really wanted to, but she couldn’t. He wanted her best friends dead and made no secret of that fact. Chris subtly tried to free her captured hand, not wanting to be in contact if he flipped his lid. Jordan sighed briefly and let her go. “If you must have a price set, then it’s this. Teach me how you shift. I’ve never found a spell that works. No blood-mage I hunted over the years ever managed the feat either. I shift like a member of the Blood. Being able to change via magic instead would be useful, such as when they somehow took away my Blood gifts in London.” All he wanted was one spell in exchange for fulfilling her single biggest dream? It seemed too easy. “And a favor owed, since I doubt you’d consider a single spell fair exchange.” He was right, despite her momentary relief at the notion of just teaching him how to shift. A favor owed – rather open to interpretation. He’d probably expect one hell of a favor, but she could negotiate when he cashed in. The offer was mostly a sop to her conscience, and she knew it. Better to say yes and make him go away for a while, let her regroup from this unexpected tactic, this “oh-sosincere” side of him. “As long as it doesn’t involve betraying Dee or Anthony.” “Agreed.” Gathering a little energy, she nodded. “Agreed then.” Releasing the spell to “nudge” him into going along with her suggestion, she said, “Why don’t you go do, ah, whatever it is you do, while I try to get my truck back?”

The impassive mask slammed back into place. “Right. If the power comes back, might I use your computer upstairs? My CFO is trying to set up a time to meet with me next week, and I’ve emails to respond to. Laptops are all well and good, but I’d rather use a regular machine.” Hiding her smirk at how easily he fell to her supposedly untrained gift, she nodded. Maybe the tangled talent crap is why that spell works so well on him. And he doesn’t have a freakin’ clue. Awesome. “Yeah. Password to log onto the network is marcus, with a capital ‘R,’ four six star percent.” “Much obliged.” Jordan squeezed her hand lightly and rose, striding out without further word. Chris angled her head back to watch his butt as he walked out. Jordan made awesome eye-candy, if a girl overlooked the insane part. “Chrissy?” She yelped at the unexpected intrusion. Jordan’s ability to touch her thoughts without a line of sight would take some getting used to. “Next time, don’t waste the spell. It’s rude. If I catch you doing it again, there will be consequences.” Ooops. He wasn’t as clueless as she thought. But she’d take the threat. It meant the real Jordan was back, which was comforting because she knew how to deal with him then. Chris carefully deleted the email from Harlequin that included information on the timing of Pierce’s trip to London, just in case Jordan got onto her computer down here again before she told him. **** Thanks to the power outage, she didn’t get any laundry done and her bathroom continued to stink of blood. She did, however, go through her closet to pick clothes for her New York trip. She might work for Jordan, but she wasn’t missing her semi-annual trip to New York City. She and Donovan had tickets for a musical he’d wanted to see for years. While she didn’t appreciate music thanks to her tin ear, he did. He’d confirmed the trip when she called to get her truck back, and it’d arrived just before four that afternoon. Thankfully he hadn’t asked too many questions about why she’d abandoned it in his parking lot for more than a day. Sometimes his cluelessness was a blessing.

The power came back just a heartbeat before the doorbell rang. Chris glanced at the battery-operated clock on her bedside table and sighed. Almost six thirty. They could leave at any time. With any luck, the visitor downstairs was the courier. Jordan closed the door as she hit the bottom of the stairs, a medium-sized box covered in a variety of seals in his arms. “I can sort through this lot on the road. Are you ready to leave?” “I have to be in New York on Thursday. How long do you think you’ll need with Pierce?” His expression turned grim. “I dare say that depends on how cooperative he is. With any fortune, he will resist, and then I can have a great deal more fun. What’s in New York?” Her stomach quivered, and she ignored his question. “Hrmm. Fine. Maybe the interrogation won’t take long.” She refused to call it torture. “Do you want to spend the day in Orlando, or try to make it back here afterward?” “Staying in accommodations means people would see us. While I can clean up any trace of being in Mr. Townsend’s residence, why take chances with someone sighting me anywhere but here?” Good point. “I’ll just grab my laptop. If you still want the spell for how I shift, I can give you the password for the file where I saved my notes on the process.” He glanced up from the box and smiled briefly. It did nothing to warm his demeanor. Great, he’s in Señor Psycho mode. “Bring my bag down when you come, would you? It’s on my bed.” “Yeah, sure.” **** When she hopped into her truck, the box was already open. She carefully set her laptop on the seat between them and retrieved the knife resting on the dashboard to stick into her boot. She hadn’t felt right with only one of the pair. Jordan dug through the box, spilling packing peanuts over the seat. “Dude, watch it. I just detailed Shadow last week!” He grunted and plucked out a pale blue jewel case. “Here it is. Might I use your computer to look at what’s here?” “Only if you promise me that your disc won’t blow it up.”

“No fears there.” He set the case aside and dove back into the box. She backed out of the driveway and waved at the little girl who belonged to her next door neighbor. Penny sat on the ground, coloring something that Chris supposed might look like a purple flower. “Ah hah, good man.” Jordan pulled out a small velvet bag. He dropped it in her lap where it landed with a soft plop and continued digging. “That’s for you.” When she came to the stop sign leading out of the subdivision, Chris glanced in the mirror to be certain no one lined up behind her and picked up the bag. It weighed very little, and she heard metal clink within when she shook it. “It’s not a snake.” He yanked something else out of the box. Apparently satisfied with the fruits of his hunt, he folded the lid shut. One more glance in the rearview mirror and she shook the contents into her other hand. She blinked at the sparkling handful of gems. Links of rose-gold alternated with tiny, heart-shape, brilliantcut sapphires. A larger, identically cut sapphire dangled from the center. “It’s exquisite. One of yours?” “Would I bother with wares from a lesser artist?” He sounded thoroughly offended at the notion as he slipped a tarnished silver chain over his head. Before he tucked it under the collar of his crisp, black shirt, she glimpsed a battered medallion of matching metal. “Sorry.” She rubbed her thumb over the glittering stones, more than a little entranced by it. While she didn’t study up about jewelry, she knew quality. Celtic represented quality in finished product, the way DeBeers represented quality in diamonds. She might heartily dislike the owner of the company much of the time, but she’d purchased slightly more than half of her jewelry from Celtic over the years. Thankfully, she kept it all locked up in her safe, so Jordan never need know. The last thing she needed was for him to think she admired his craftsmanship. His ego was already big enough. A car came up behind her then, so she set the chain so it dribbled over either side of her thigh, rather than dump it in a cup holder until she figured out what better to do with it. “I hesitate to ask this, but, uh, why are you giving it to me?”

“It’s a loan, not a gift.” Jordan turned to look out the passenger window, though what he expected to see as they drove past a little strip mall on the way to the highway, she didn’t know. “Examine it with your other sight.” Coming to the last stoplight before the on-ramp, she did. A faint amber glow rose from the large sapphire, indicating enchantment of some sort. She blinked rapidly to return to normal vision. “What is it?” “A focus. It will help you when trying some of the more difficult spells until you can make one of your own.” “I have a focus. He’s too big to haul around most places.” The hand-sculpted bronze statue, her one attempt at art from the ‘60s, barely qualified as a statue, but she was very fond of Charlie. “How does a focus get to be too big? Most are designed to be easily hidden.” “Don’t ask. Either way, I have one.” “Not with us, I daresay. And if it’s too big, then you need a new one. If you expect to be able to use your talents, you should always have a focus. Situations can sometimes—” “Oh dear God, Jordan, I don’t need ‘Magic 101’. I’m not a complete idiot, you know. I’ve been casting spells for two centuries.” She cast a sidelong glance in his direction. “At the risk of annoying you, earlier was the first time you’ve ever noticed when I used my gifts on you. I’m not a novice.” “You might as well be.” He picked up the necklace and held it up to the light as if looking for flaws. “The attempt was clumsy, and, now that I know for certain what you are, all too obvious.” “Most people wouldn’t.” “Dream-magic is meant to be subtle. You can choose obvious times and still be subtle about it.” Jordan slid the necklace away and dropped the bag into the cup holder. “Either way, when we get where we’re going, wear that. It will make entry into the dream passage easier.” She wondered just whom he’d made it for. Did he make a habit of enchanting jewelry? It might make for a profitable side business, if a bit risky, given he shouldn’t be able to perform magic at all. “Yes, because I’m naturally going to be using dreams while you torture a man!”

Going to Orlando for this was a mistake. She shouldn’t have let him convince her otherwise. How exactly had he managed it? Oh, right, the binding curse. If he thought it had anything to do with his position on the stupid Circle, he had another think coming. “You might be surprised what dreams can accomplish. It’s better to be prepared. Stop arguing with me for just a little while, Christine. I’m not in the mood, and it’s going to be a long drive. Do you really want to be in the vehicle with me if I get perturbed?” He stretched his legs out and folded his hands over his lap, head propped against the glass of the passenger window. What could he do, given she was driving? Then again, why take chances? “Fine, whatever.” “After we deal with Mr. Townsend, remind me to show you how to block off your dreams, and mine as well. I don’t want this Ares chap to have access any more.” “What about the other members of the Circle?” Anthony at the very least needed protection. “I’m still mulling that. Even with my enhanced abilities, I doubt I will be capable of closing their dreams off. Therefore, you need to find them on the dream passage, or cast the spell on them directly. Either way, you need to know identities, and I don’t have authorization to reveal them. I won’t break Circle anonymity.” “Enhanced?” “I told you earlier. When we’re together, our respective gifts are stronger than they are when we’re apart. Given blocking off dreams is a rather complex and very delicate matter, I doubt I’m capable of it.” The faith he seemed to have in her ability to do something that he couldn’t was a little intimidating. “How are you going to explain the fact that I still have my head on my shoulders, given the whole ‘oh, by the way, Chris is a blood-mage’ thing?” “It’s been noted on more than one occasion that when I find someone to be of use but who violates our laws, I might let them live. For a time, anyway.” That didn’t inspire confidence. At least he couldn’t ever kill her, if what he said about their gifts being a bit entwined was true. That didn’t mean someone else couldn’t or wouldn’t. “One day, when I control the Circle, I intend to eliminate that particular law. The mage-born will protest, I imagine, but the rule

limits us; and, as we can tell given your existence, mine and possibly Ares’s as well, it can be worked around.” As long as Anthony stayed alive and on the Circle, Jordan couldn’t lead. Leadership always fell to the oldest of the members. Long live Stuffy Britches. **** Second, third, and fourth thoughts fostered by doubt consumed Chris by the time she moved the truck through Orlando to Pierce’s small subdivision. Binding curse or no, she couldn’t just go in and watch him be tortured. Pulling into the parking lot of a shopping center only a mile and a half from Pierce’s house, she cut the engine. “You can walk the rest of the way. I got you here, and technically all I’m required to do is help you find the Aristocrats. Nothing in the curse says I have to help you torture them.” Given she barely whispered the words, dreading the potential reaction, at first she wasn’t sure Jordan heard her. He didn’t move, staring into the darkness until he asked, “You doubt his involvement?” “No.” Not given Pierce’s arrival in London the day before Angel’s death and departure the day after. She debated whether this was the time to tell Jordan. Maybe afterward would be better? “This is your arena, not mine.” Lamplight cast his pretty features into harsh shadow. For the past hour, she’d felt his withdrawal, the last of the nicer Jordan vanishing under the weight of the monster. It sucked, sitting a foot away. “Two hundred years ago, you launched into a brutal campaign to eliminate my Aristocrats, with nary a whimper at getting your hands bloody. Why the hesitation this time, Christine?” She kept asking herself the same question. The modern murders were worse. Her teeth sank into her lower lip, breaking the skin. Rich, coppery blood seeped into her mouth as she considered how to answer. She hated sounding selfish. He turned and pinned her in her seat with one steady glance. “Answer me.” Chris gulped. Show no fear. Her fingers dug into her thigh to keep a calm façade. “Last time, ah, last time I wanted payback for what you did to me and to others. Right now, the Aristocrats are focused on killing Blood leaders. I’m nobody.”

“They’re ultimately threatening all of us if the humans find out. It could turn very ugly very quickly. Asumming Ares is a part of the movement, he’s clearly deemed you a threat. Isn’t that personal enough?” True. Jordan reached out and rested his hand on top of hers, the touch cool and impersonal. “Mayhap you need to understand just what it is we’re dealing with. Lower your shields.” Her hair fell across her face when she shook her head. She knew what he wanted to do, and her stomach twisted painfully. “No. Stay out of my head.” “You need to see, Christine.” His grip tightened to the point of pain. She moaned, but quickly stifled it. He wouldn’t let up until it suited him. “Let me in. Any doubts you have will be gone. If they’re not, I won’t push you to come with me.” **** Jordan watched indecision war with unease in her pale blue eyes. It was asking a lot, given she didn’t trust him. Memory transfers left one entirely vulnerable, physically and mentally, while the mind processed the information. He almost never allowed someone to send him memories. Finally, very slowly, she nodded. Reaching out telepathically, his mind touched hers. After an initial surge of resistance, her shields fell, and he sent the memories of the vision of Fatima’s death, and the agony the seven members of the Circle had projected as they died. Her face went blank, and he deliberately pulled his hand back. If he didn’t, he might break her fingers accidentally. Jordan clenched a fist and stared into the darkness. A car drove by, and he forced himself to keep breathing. His fingernails lengthened into claws, sliced into his palm to draw blood. He didn’t want to go into Townsend’s home alone. Half the fun came from sharing the experience. Angel would have gone eagerly, more brutal even than he. But she was gone. Gone because these bastards thought to strike at him, embarrass him and taint his legacy. The humans’ awareness of their kind meant never rebuilding that legacy. Truth be told, even if the opportunity arose, he wasn’t sure he would start the Aristocrats again. London, and his reign of terror, was

well in the past. He’d been impetuous, cocky because of his installation within the Circle. As long as he kept his exploits limited to the rotters, none of the Blood got in the way. Now, he wanted more. He didn’t know what that entailed. Just more. He enjoyed the notion of an occasional foray into violence, glorious torture and mayhem, but it seemed empty and pointless. Angel hadn’t agreed. So many of the young killed themselves out of boredom before they reached the end of their fledgling century. He’d seen ten times that many years. Could he be bored? The only things he wanted, craved, any more were leadership of the Circle and Christine. He had no real potential for advancement until the old man kicked off, with or without some help. At least the new Aristocrats would keep him from getting too restless for now. It felt odd, working toward the so-called ‘greater good’, even if his reasons weren’t to benefit said cause, but rather a sop to his own pride. Studying her face, noting the continued blankness, he picked up her computer. He wanted a second look at the notes on her shapeshifting “spell” without her available to comment. When he opened it, he skimmed the words and clumsily drawn forms. Looking at them again only confirmed his earlier impression. Utter nonsense. The gibberish before him was like no spell he’d seen before. So was she lying to him, or was it something else? Given her seemingly genuine interest earlier at the notion of learning to use her gifts, he suspected the latter. How in blazes do you shift, Christine? Blood-magi cannot use magic to transform. Everyone knows that. Yet shift she did, as he’d seen the other night at A’Jin’Cor. The gibberish must be magic of some sort. An unknown form? Or perhaps, a very old spell? Something about that notion rang a bell, but he couldn’t quite place it yet. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered. “He’s a dead man.” Jordan perked up at the soft declaration and tilted his head to the side as he snapped shut the computer. Now there was the Christine he wanted, not the dithering twit worried about making a mistake. All consideration of the transformation and magic issues vanished. Adrenaline flooded his body. Finally, they might get answers on the Aristocrats.

“You’ll accompany me now with no more argument?” “You bet your sweet Brit, er, Scottish ass.” She shook her head, as if clearing the last remnants of his memories from the forefront of her thoughts and then coughed. “Ah, Jordan?” “What now?” “Something you should know about Pierce.” Popping open the driver’s door, she smiled sweetly back at him. “He was in London the day you and Angel were attacked. No way of knowing for sure if he was one of the people who jumped you two, but the timing fits.” His world turned shades of crimson as she slid out of the truck and swung the door shut.

Chapter Twelve From VampiresForever.bnha.org – On blood supplies Yes, we all know the Bureau paperwork is a pain in the ass. Get over it. Yes, the fee they charge is exorbitant. But, c’mon, you can access the entire country’s network of blood banks with little hassle. Some of them even offer specialty blood orders, like horse or (ick) chicken. All you have to do is go in and pick it up, or pay the shipping. How awesome is that? No more hunting, no more zapping people to let you chow down on them, or worrying about getting the (sigh) ever-present consent forms signed. Please, do the Blood’s reputation a favor, and avoid the black-market for blood. We don’t need anyone encouraging the profiteers to utilize less-than-legal avenues to obtain donations.

Chris wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. Jordan’s presence loomed in her thoughts, if not physically. He was circling around to the back of Pierce’s little house to cut off any attempt at bolting that way. They weren’t sure if Pierce was alone, so she’d volunteered to go in first and clear the way. It was only eleven, with the full moon a night away. He might be out partying, but she thought it might be a school night; and she remembered him as a conscientious teacher. Pictures couldn’t provide the full impact of what these Aristocrats did to their victims. Based on the agony that had slammed through Jordan’s memories of the attacks on the other Circle members, and the savagery involved in the murders of Angel and Fatima, she’d shelved her personal distaste for torture. There was a time and place for everything. These little shits needed to remember not only who the Bloody Baron was, but who’d broken the original Aristocrats.

“Get on with it, Christine.” Chris shivered a little from the icy tone. The remembered glint of red as he fought back a threatened blood rage was enough to make her glad he was in the back yard and not behind her. Pasting a cheery smile on her lips while she fluffed her hair, she knocked on the front door. Beyond the door, a series of high-pitched yips sounded. That meant the annoying little poodle Pierce kept was still around. A faint, “Shut up, Beast,” told her Pierce himself was home. A tiny light shone through the peephole, and after several moments, the light vanished as he looked through. A second later, the door opened, and he filled the entry way, holding an ugly, squirming black ball of fur. Surprise showed on his face. Dark of hair and eyes, an inch or so shorter than she, pungent waves of musk rolling off him instantly identified the man as a were-tiger. This close to the moon, a werebeast’s inner animal always fought to rise to the surface, and frequently leaked through in smell if nothing else. Pierce blinked, clearly baffled by her arrival. So close, and on the alert for anything out of the ordinary, she didn’t miss the wariness. “Hey, ah, Chris.” The so-called “Beast” snarled at her. “Hey, Pierce. I was in the neighborhood on my way up to Jax, thought I might drop by and see how things’re hanging with you.” Black brows snapped together, and he frowned. “It’s kinda late. I know you toothy types live for night, but I got to be up in the morning.” She stuck her lower lip out with just the hint of a pout. “Aww, pretty please? I haven’t seen you in a year, and you can’t really mean to sleep tonight, just before the full moon, can you?” “Well, yeah, actually. I don’t, er, I mean.” He floundered, and she almost felt sorry for him. Almost. Until Fatima’s broken body flashed through her thoughts. “Well, I guess, as long as you don’t mind if I grade papers while you’re here.” She brushed past him and entered the compact residence. Sure didn’t look like he lived above his pay grade. A series of pictures covered the wall of the hallway, all surfing related, and about half of them with Pierce in them.

Patience, she counseled herself. They needed a good spot, easy to clean blood up. Forensics would pick up almost anything they left behind. Pierce paused at the end of the hallway, doorways leading to either side. He cracked open the door to his right and deposited the annoying mongrel. Beast began whining and yipping as he shut the door. “You hungry? I keep supplies on hand for a mate of mine, if you are.” “I’m good, thanks.” He shrugged and pushed into the little dining room. Walking behind him, she didn’t miss the tension that tightened the muscles in his shoulders and back. He was definitely on edge about something. “Need I continue to wait?” “Yes.” Jordan didn’t respond, but sent the image of tapping his foot impatiently. Chris rubbed the back of her neck. Pierce plopped at the head of the small rectangular oak table, two stacks of paper in front of him, red pen resting on the stack to his right. Pretty much what she thought a teacher might look like, yet something seemed off. “So, whatcha been up to lately, Pierce? Been what, a year since we went surfing?” “Oh, same ol’, same ol’.” “Still hanging with Vinnie?” Vinnie, Dee’s now ex-boyfriend, a cowardly lion if ever she met one, had introduced her to Pierce. If the Aristocrats were working with one species of shifter, maybe they were working with others. After they finished with Pierce, she’d go through the list of people she knew he hung with, see if she could find anyone else who went out of the country with him. “Not so much. He’s been busy, and with the beginning of term, so have I.” Pierce picked up the pen, twiddled it between his stubby fingers. He didn’t move like the jungle cat he turned into, but sometimes shifters didn’t. Most now, except for the very oldest, hadn’t been alive before the Great Awakening. Many still concealed what they were, even learning to move like humans to avoid discrimination when possible. Chris suspected the humans, given any excuse, would hunt the non-humans to extinction, starting with the vampires. Which was why she had to stop these damned Aristocrats. “Done anything interesting lately?”

His gaze slithered between the pen and her face before dropping back to the paper. “Started planning a trip to Hawaii to catch some waves out there during Christmas break.” “Really?” She straddled the chair opposite him, carefully keeping distance between them. When threatened, weres moved fast. Not only couldn’t vampires read shifters, but the animals matched them for speed in the short term. “I’ve been thinking about going on a vacation myself.” “Yeah?” He studied the page before him, filled with neat typewritten lines. “Focus on what you’re doing, Christine..” “Leave me alone. We all do things in our own way.” She wanted Pierce to make the first move, just in case the authorities showed up uninvited. It probably wouldn’t come to that with Jordan involved. “Yup. I was thinking, hm, the Middle East somewhere. I got some friends over there. Maybe Egypt. Or maybe elsewhere. I got a friend in Qatar who’s gone silent the past few weeks. Not like Fatima, to go quiet.” She caught the twitch, the minute tremor in the hand holding the pen. Gotcha, you shit. “Really? Can’t quite see you in that get-up you’d have to wear.” “Bleh, I don’t flash tons of skin, Pierce. You just have to be modest.” She still had a few scarves from her last trip to Egypt to see Xan. “Have you ever been over there? It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” He licked his lips, a thin band of sweat slicking the top of his hairline. For shame, starting to go bald and not even thirty yet. “Um, n, no. Where would I get that kind of money, to travel so far? Teachers don’t make squat.” She allowed her friendly demeanor to fade. He had to suspect she knew. Dropping her attention to her fingernails, she tapped them, one by one, on the table top. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s funny, though.” “What is?” “I have a friend who swears he saw you in Qatar. ‘Bout two weeks ago now, I think it was.” A sickly pallor washed away his healthy tan.

Chris leaned forward, clasping her hands before her and smiled unpleasantly. “Why don’t we cut through the bullshit, Pierce? Admit you were in Qatar.” She sensed Jordan entering through the back door. Across from her, Pierce stared blankly. “I, er.” “Admit to me you were in London, three weeks ago, and maybe the Bloody Baron won’t rip your heart out while you’re still alive,” she said softly. What little color remained in his complexion faded. Pierce reached under the table and came back with a gun. Chris almost giggled, pressing her lips tightly together to avoid letting it out. A gun was the best he could do? She didn’t move, letting him think he had the upper hand. Pierce leveled the weapon at her. “Caldwell send you?” “Nope. Don’t you feel a little silly?” She gestured to the gun. “Wooden bullets will have minimal impact on me. Too small.” Shifting in her seat, she stood, slapping her palms on the table and never broke eye contact. “I’ve seen pictures of Fatima, Pierce. I know you were there.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Chris.” Despite his initial pallor, his demeanor shifted, becoming more cunning and arrogant. “As I see it, what I have is a home invasion, thus a reasonable case for self-defense. Tragic if the intruder turned up permanently dead, wouldn’t you think? Right now, nobody has to get hurt. Walk away.” Jordan’s presence filtered into the room, hovering somewhere just overhead. Afraid he might jump the gun, she projected, “Wait. He’s gotta have something up his sleeve to be this cocky.” “To borrow one of your charming sayings, ‘no shit’.” “Come off it. You pull that trigger, Caldwell’s gonna be all over your sorry feline butt for attacking the Blood.” She didn’t wave her credentials often, but in the past twenty years, word had emerged she was his heir in every respect, and any offense given her went back to him. “Blood takes care of Blood.” “Unless you have proof of anything, get out. You’d bring me before the Council if you could, not show up here like this.” A prickle at the edge of her awareness distracted her from Pierce for just a moment. Not certain what she sensed, she scowled. It couldn’t be another shifter, could it?

“Jordan?” “Someone else is here, another vampire I think. I’ll handle it. Won’t be more than a moment.” Tigers and vamps never worked together. Not ever in the whole history of the whole history. Something was definitely weird about this. Even a vamp shouldn’t make the shifter so certain of himself. Pierce waved toward the exit. “You going to leave, or does this get sticky?” She tapped her cheek with a blunted fingernail, pretended to think about his suggestion. “Hmm, let’s see. One vamp, one tiger. Tiger has weapon. Vamp has, well, you never know what we might have up our sleeves.” Pierce clicked off the safety and held the gun on her steadily. A loud shriek, followed by a thump from the front of the house made the decision for her. Beast went wild, trapped in the other room. When Pierce blinked, she moved. By the time he pulled the trigger, sending a blob of opalescent goo in her direction, Chris was half way around the table. Gunk splattered on the wall behind where she’d been standing as she reached the bear. Her claws sank into the wrist of the hand holding the gun. Pierce snarled, fingers loosening on the weapon. Fur sprouted over his body as he began shifting to his larger, bulkier form. Yanking her silver and mahogany dagger from her boot, the blade sliced cleanly into the man/beast’s left shoulder, avoiding vital organs. Claws raked deep furrows into her waist and hip, then knocked her four feet back. Full transition from man to beast, with all the increase in bulk, would take almost a minute, but limbs changed first. The creature spun in a fruitless attempt to yank the dagger out with hands mostly turned to paws. Chris righted herself, clamping down over the wound. As long as the dagger lay inside, the change couldn’t finish. Every beat of his heart would send the sensation of acid through his veins. “Oh, Chrissy, you started without me,” Jordan said lightly, his jovial tone belied by the starch in his stance as he came up behind the shifter. “Couldn’t you wait a couple seconds more?” Pierce roared and dropped to all fours, ready to bolt, dagger sticking obscenely from his upper back region.

Jordan raised golden brows in disbelief before he hissed at the cat. “Where do you think you’re going?” Chris leaped forward, other weapon drawn and, crouching, sliced clean through where she estimated the applicable tendon. Thankfully, Pierce should still be man enough for that to make a difference. His back leg trembled and crimson fountained onto the parquet floor to splash the leg of his chair. Jordan’s claws sank into the tiger’s throat, just shy of cutting of the air supply. “Now, dear chap, either change back like a good cub so we can talk, or I will kill you right now.” More blood flowed, this time from Pierce’s throat, coating Jordan’s fingers into the black fabric of his long-sleeved shirt. Chris breathed through her mouth rather than risk temptation from the stink of blood in the air. It wouldn’t do any good to frenzy. She tended to do precisely that when faced with a lot of blood, provided it wasn’t hers, naturally. Jordan clearly had more self-control, based on his utter calm. Pierce choked, tried to shake the vampire off, but the brutal grip didn’t budge. Through a mouthful of sharp teeth, he managed to say, “Do your worst. I won’t talk.” The high-pitched giggle that filled the room was the only warning the shifter got before Jordan slammed him into the wall, driving the dagger deeper into his flesh. When Pierce’s head made contact with the wall, not only did it leave a nasty dent in the drywall, it rendered him unconscious. “I hoped you’d say that,” Jordan purred and dropped the unconscious creature before cracking his knuckles. “Go and fetch my things, Christine. I get to play now.” **** When Chris looked at her watch, she blinked. Almost four in the morning already. They couldn’t draw this out much longer, not if they wanted to get back to Fort Myers before Jordan combusted. Rather than get in the way of the master, she had spent most of the past several hours settled in her earlier chair, feet propped on a second chair as he worked. Pierce didn’t look good. They had removed the silver knife long enough that he reverted to his human form while unconscious. Now he lay stretched out across the table, pinned with nails through

several extremities, a silver collar around his throat to prevent any further attempts at shifting. “I’ll ask you one more time,” Jordan said softly, leaning over the other man. Blood streaked down his left cheek and covered his hands. “Who went with you to London? Tell me about the man called Loki.” Somehow, they hadn’t learned a damn thing. Pierce choked, dark blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth as his head lolled limply to the left, rather than looking directly at his tormenter. She sighed. They needed a psy-mage, a telepath, to burrow deep into his mind and rip out the secrets he carried. While vamp telepathy didn’t work on shifters, strong mage-born telepathy did. “C’mon, man, just talk, and he’ll put an end to this.” “Christine, shut it.” Jordan shot her a fulminating glare. She shivered at the look. That very expression resided permanently in her memory from the night he buried her. “Tick tock, Jordan. We’re not spending the day here. Someone’s bound to notice if he doesn’t show up, given school’s in session.” Pierce shuddered, shattered right hand twitching when he tried to move. While cuts from non-silver weapons healed almost instantly, making it possible to torture a shifter for hours without them bleeding out, bones and internal organs didn’t repair themselves nearly so fast. Jordan retrieved the Kerrich dagger from where he’d discarded it earlier after carving an elaborate symbol over the plane of Pierce’s right pectoral and rested it against the man’s jugular. “For a feline shifter, you’re quite bull-headed. Foolishly brave.” “Gonna kill me.” “Yes, quite, and after what you and your acquaintances did to my wife, no one will blame me.” That’s debatable. Chris heaved out of the chair and headed for the kitchen. They needed to clean up the blood, so she might as well get started. Her earlier enthusiasm to attack and kill had passed hours ago, about the same time Beast finally stopped yipping. What they’d done to Pierce didn’t sit so well. Yes, he was a murdering SOB who needed to die for attacking multiple people. Jordan was just a little too enthusiastic about torturing him. Back in London, she’d only played with her victims an hour or so before dispatching them.

Despite the general bachelor’s disarray in the house, Pierce kept a mostly clean kitchen. Unlike her, he clearly used the stove and oven. Gunk accumulated in the drip pans under the burners. Using the edge of her shirt to avoid leaving fingerprints, she opened the fridge and surveyed the contents. The five packets of blood surprised her. He had offered her refreshment, and it wasn’t uncommon for non-vamps to store blood when they had vamp friends. But non-vamps couldn’t buy the blood themselves. She pulled one of the packets out and studied the label. Pierce’s name and address were on the label along with the infinity symbol. The blood didn’t come from a major blood bank. She knew all of the banks in Florida, and none used that logo. Tucking the blood under her arm, she flipped the door shut and looked under the sink for cleaning supplies. Her arms filled with paper towels and bleach, she returned to the dining room where Jordan slumped in his chair, an uncharacteristic look of frustration on his face. “You are incredibly stubborn.” He mumbled something under his breath that Chris missed. Pierce closed his eyes, breath hitching in his chest. From the rattle at the weak inhalation, he didn’t have much longer before his body gave out. “No luck?” “None. I know he’s involved. My visions are never wrong, but he won’t yield the information.” “Would a dream of some sort pry it out of him? Put him to sleep, and climb into his head that way?” She automatically shifted to telepathy to ask the question, though in retrospect she realized the silliness. Pierce wouldn’t live to tell anyone they were blood-magi. “Possibly, but opening the door of someone I don’t know very well is nigh impossible. Can you manage it quickly? Without medical intervention, I approximate twenty minutes or so until he’s dead.” Her nose wrinkled, and she shook her head. “It takes me longer than that just to open the passage, and then I’d need to track down the right door.” Jordan nodded and studied the cleaning supplies she’d brought back with her. “Those won’t be necessary.” “Eh? You’re just gonna leave him all like that? What about evidence?”

He snorted. “This room won’t be in any condition to be checked. Put it away, and make sure anything you touched elsewhere has been wiped clean.” She turned to go and then stopped. “What are you going to do?” He tilted his head back against the back of his chair and smiled up at her. It wasn’t pretty. “Fire works wonders.” Chris groaned. “You can’t just burn everyone’s house down. They might just pick up on the fact that there’s an arson-happy killer on the loose.” “I rarely use fire to clean up. But this once, I’ll make an exception.” Climbing back to his feet, he waved her off. “Hurry up. I want him to feel the fire, which means we need to wrap up now. Bring the corpse from the other room in here when you come back. Her head rolled under the coffee table.” She bit her lip and returned the cleaning supplies, carefully wiping each one down and pocketing the wipe. She kept the blood in hand while she visited the living room where she found the body he referred to. Permanent death didn’t look good on anyone. Vamps rotted away quickly once sent to theirs. She didn’t recognize the face that stared blindly up. “Jordan, they’re going to know someone died in here, even if we move the body.” “You might be right. Leave the body there. Two rooms can go up rather than one.” She scowled and stomped back to the dining room. “We have nothing to burn this hot enough or fast enough. If you’d warned me we were going to be lighting fires, I might have been able to research a lil’, find out how to—” “Don’t be silly. If you mean petrol, unnecessary. Thanks to you, I have all I need.” Totally lost, she looked down at Pierce. One eye dangled out of its socket, connected only by the bundle of nerves, long past seeing. Her stomach lurched at the sight. Reminding herself she didn’t have anything to heave, since vamps couldn’t puke blood, she swallowed her gorge. Pierce blinked his good eye, a single tear sliding down his cheek. “Chris.”

Her head shot up as her jaw dropped. That wasn’t Jordan in her head. What the hell? “Something amiss?” Jordan tossed the Kerrich dagger back into his knapsack after wiping the blood off on one of the few unbloodied patches of Pierce’s shirt left. “I, ah.” Shifters didn’t have telepathy. It’s why they couldn’t be read, or detected, by vamps. “He, he...” “War is coming, and we’ll win.” Despite the broken body, Pierce’s thought came through loud and clear. Her legs buckled, and she slid into a nearby chair, packet of blood sliding to the floor with a soft “plop”. Vamps and tigers working together, and now telepathic shifters? Did someone change the rules on her and forget to send her the memo? Something was seriously fucked up with this picture. “You’re a decent person, mostly, for a vamp. If you find Ares, beg for clemency, and he might let you live. Join us, or he’ll destroy you, like he’s destroyed your Circle. We can’t be stopped, because you can’t find us.” She leaped out of her chair and dug her fingers into one of the seeping wounds on his chest, aiming for maximum pain. Pierce let out a watery yowl. “Who is Ares? Where is he?” He flashed a weak, rictus grin, and his dark eye rolled back in his head. One last faint thought touched hers. “He’ll find you in your dreams. Call for him.” Pierce went limp, though she detected his pulse fluttering beneath her fingers. Chris kicked the table leg, yelping when a shockwave of pain traveled through her foot. “Son of a bitch.” “What the devil has come over you?” She spun to face Jordan and pointed with her bloody hand at the bear. “He’s a telepath, that’s what.” “Impossible.” He peered at Pierce around her. His eyes went unfocused briefly. “Pure shifter. Check what’s left of his aura.” Bloody hand smashed against her hip, Chris stomped her foot, the motion made to let off tension. Unfortunately, she chose the newly-bruised foot, and the stomp sent fresh spasms through her bones. “Damn it, I know what I heard. He might read like a shifter, but he’s a telepath, too.”

Jordan didn’t look convinced. “Shifters. Can’t. Touch. Thoughts. Although …” He cocked his head to the side, lost in thought before he quickly shook himself. “It’s impossible, Christine.” Punching him will achieve nothing, not even knock sense into his fat, stubborn head. Chris growled and turned to kick the table again but stopped at the last second. “Then he’s no shifter, no matter what his aura says. He climbed into my head and said Ares might grant me clemency if I found him, and to call out in my dreams.” “He mentioned Ares?” She nodded shortly and sighed, letting the temper flow out. Pierce was too far gone now to bring back for more information. Rather than harp on a topic Jordan clearly wouldn’t listen to her on, she asked, “How’re you planning to burn the house?” “Magic. Hopefully, it will shift blame from the Blood onto someone else. I took care not to drain him. You’ve not touched much, have you?” Well aware of what not to do, thanks to a forensics class in her minor some years back, Chris nodded again, still distracted by the weirdness factor of a shifter with mental abilities. “What I touched, I cleaned. There’s blood in his fridge.” Jordan wiped several of his implements, a variety of knives and a couple of spoons with wicked edges on them, on Pierce’s tattered clothes before tucking them away in his knapsack. “So? He explained that when he offered you a drink.” “Federal regulations don’t allow blood banks to ship directly to non-vampires. The blood is in his name. The shipper used the infinity symbol as their logo.” She retrieved the bag and held it out for his inspection. “Are you familiar with the company?” “No, I’m not. It can’t be a legal entity.” Not all vamps liked the processing procedures the blood bank system used. Some had different tastes in their preferences, including a desire for adrenaline-laced blood (highly illegal) like back in the old days when vamps had to hunt for food. The authorities objected to the banks terrorizing their donors just to give blood a kick. The black market, on the other hand, didn’t share the same scruples.

“When we get back to Fort Myers, I’ll check, see if I can find any group that uses that emblem.” “I’ll leave that to you to root out. Give it here,” he said and tucked the blood along with Pierce’s gun into the bag before slinging it over his shoulder. His earlier comment about magic finally sank in. “You can create fire?” “Seers can cast regular spells, though they can’t specialize in elemental magic. I didn’t lose that when I converted, and with strength siphoned from you, I’ll have this room destroyed long before any authorities arrive.” “How do you plan on doing that? Siphoning, I mean.” “Watch and learn.” He sketched a symbol in the air, eyes narrowed in concentration, muttering something under his breath. The only word she caught was the last one, definitely spoken louder than the rest. “Ignis.” The table next to her smoldered. Little red and gold flames sprouted across a small square of the surface next to Pierce’s nailed hand. She knew the Latin word for fire. Xan had taught her how to manage basic elemental magic, but as a dream-walker, she didn’t have much force behind her magic. Judging by the tiny flames dancing, neither did Jordan. How did he propose to destroy the room with such a small start? “Time to go,” he said and caught her shoulder to steer her toward the exit. “Back door. We need to be unobserved for a few minutes once we’re out. I’m not going to burn the house down with us inside. I’m not fond of fire.” She smirked. Darn tootin’, he wasn’t. Jordan didn’t bother closing the door, just guided her into the shadows under an old sycamore tree. Folding her arms over her chest, she glanced back at the house. No sign of anything out of the ordinary. “So, now what?” He dumped his pack on the ground and turned toward the house. “I need you to gather your magic in the pit of your stomach. Like an opera singer takes a deep breath in preparation for a particularly trying passage.” “An opera singer?” Unusual choice for a comparison, but she got the basic concept. She did it any time she wanted to cast a big

spell, most recently her foray into SRI. Wrinkling her nose in concentration, she turned to face the house and took a deep breath. It centered her, and energy flowed through her body to settle in her belly. He stepped behind her, the flat of his hand sliding against her tummy through the gaping hole in her shirt left by Pierce’s attack. The touch sent tingles outward when his fingers brushed the newly healed skin. Chris stiffened at the unexpected touch, concentration broken. “What are you doing?” “Shh. Just concentrate.” He drew her back against him, his breath tickling the hair tucked behind her ear. “I’ve not tried this before, but my father told me about this.” His father? He’d never mentioned his parents before. She bit her lip and gathered energy back. The hair along her arms rose. “If I do this right, it should feel interesting. For both of us.” She didn’t miss the pause. What wasn’t he saying? The arm at her waist tightened until she fancied every muscle in his body pressed into hers. Heat flushed through her, the thrill of the unknown and familiar mixing in a delightful combination. “Ready?” Rather than risk blowing her concentration and accidentally letting something loose, she nodded. In her peripheral vision, she caught his other hand thrust out, like throwing a ball. “Ignis!” The gathered power in her belly ripped through her, followed by a fresh wave of heat that traveled upward from her toes through her legs, into her tummy under his hand. The grip around her waist tightened. A wave of pleasure swamped her, and the world shattered.

Chapter Thirteen From the Bureau of Non-Human Affairs’ FAQ Page: Mage-Born Question: What is this “Sharing” I keep reading about? Answer: The Sharing takes place when a mage-born relaxes their control over their gifts and allows power to seep through to someone else. This is most common during sex, heightening the pleasure for the receiving partner. In days past, it was used as a way of finding sexual satisfaction without actually doing the deed.

Jordan squeezed his eyes shut, fingers still clamped over Chrissy’s mouth as she sagged back against him. Only through a great deal of self-discipline had he kept from spasming against her. She’d better bloody appreciate his control over that. Now he understood just why his father had always looked so satisfied after he and Mother had worked together on some spell or another. Light radiated from the inferno they’d just ignited inside the house, and he cleared his throat. Walking wouldn’t be fun until certain things relaxed a bit. They needed to go, regardless. “Chrissy?” She nipped at his hand, and, relatively certain she was done, he let that hand fall to his side, though he kept her anchored against him. “Holy crap, Jordan. Next time, warn me?” “Next time, you’ll expect it.” Nice that she didn’t automatically preclude the possibility of a repeat performance. He certainly intended to make certain they combined their talents again, and at a locale they could do more than just stand there. “Normally, it won’t pull so much power between us. We need to go before someone sees the fire.” Only meters away, red and yellow flames licked down the hall into the kitchen, consuming everything in their path. Chrissy took a deep breath and nodded as she reached down and plucked his arm from around her. He only reluctantly let go,

acknowledging the need to retreat. “I didn’t beg for that, so don’t you dare say you won.” It took a moment to follow her pronouncement, and he rolled his eyes. He probably shouldn’t argue, but he couldn’t help himself. “I called it off, recall? All I wanted was the blood-bond, and I have that now.” She turned and scowled, her quick survey of him taking in his gradually lessening erection. Damned traitorous piece of flesh leaped right back to attention. “No chance in hell I’m letting you wriggle out of it. You’re gonna beg, MacNaught.” At the moment, she might be right. He wanted nothing more than to shove her back against the sycamore and sink into her to find his release. God’s blood, he felt randier than a teenager. The becoming flush and remaining hint of glazed satisfaction in her expression didn’t help. With an effort, he sniffed dismissively. Never allow a woman to think she has the upper hand. “Don’t count on it, my dear.” The moonlight caught the patch of pale skin through her shirt as she turned on her heel to reach for a low branch. “Let’s split up. Remember where we parked?” Catching the back of her shirt, he yanked her to a halt. “We’ll attract less attention if we walk like normal people, Chrissy. No one’s going to look twice at two of the Blood out for a constitutional at this hour.” “Yeah, but normally said members of the Blood aren’t wearing shredded clothes or covered in blood.” She turned and rubbed her fingers against his cheek, holding them out for him to see. Such fleeting contact almost sent him over the edge. “People might remember you like that.” **** Despite her all-too-recent release, a shiver of awareness raced through her body when Jordan caught her outstretched hand. The sensation only increased when his tongue bathed her finger, removing every trace of Pierce’s blood. Right then, she wouldn’t object to returning the favor, making sure he was all clean, everywhere. Even under his clothes. A girl had to be thorough, right? Oh dear God, I’m turning into a nympho. Control, Chris, control. Make him beg. She shouldn’t feel anything after what they’d just done, certainly not after the spell or whatever made her orgasm,

and yet she could all too easily picture stripping him down and having crazy monkey sex right there. Damn it. She yanked her hand from his at the knowing glint that entered his eyes. “You might be right,” he said grudgingly. He took a final look at the house and dumped his bag on the ground. “I’ll fly; you walk. You didn’t get blood anywhere noticeable.” Before she pointed out the gaping rip in her top, he swiftly removed his shirt and offered it to her. The old burn scars ran along his left arm onto his chest and up his throat. More arrestingly, the recent Aristocrat gouge marks gleamed silver against his pale skin. “We’re close enough to the same size. That should fit and cover the holes in yours.” She took it between two fingers. “Ah, you might be right except one thing.” Sirens broke the silence a half second before the windows of Pierce’s house blew out from the inferno within. Rather than finish the thought, pointing out her boobs made her chest a bit bigger than his, she thrust her arms through the sleeves. “Shit, go.” He didn’t pause but leaped into the air to shift mid-jump into his golden eagle form, and spiraled upward. Without further delay, she scooped up his pack and climbed the tree. She’d cut through a couple of lots and then emerge a few blocks down to hike back to her truck. **** Eight that morning saw Jordan back in Chrissy’s townhouse, finishing up with his grooming in the bathroom attached to his appropriated room. From the water heard running elsewhere, and internal radar indicating her location, he surmised her to be in the bath. The woman enjoys water, he thought while running a comb through his hair. Satisfied with the reflection, he nodded and once again debated the wisdom of the decision he had reached on the trip back from Orlando. She hadn’t spoken the entire time. He’d picked up a few stray emotions that leaked through their new blood-bond. With time and practice, she’d block everything, but right now, he needed any insight available. With their lives eternally entwined, it behooved him to make some effort to keep her at ease with him. At the very least, she should be more comfortable than their current, rather combative, status quo.

He considered the bet dead since he already had what he wanted from her, for better or worse. She didn’t. So, why not give her what she wanted? Oh, he wouldn’t get on his knees and literally beg or any such idiotic thing, but just approaching her for sex, seduction, should do the trick. He’d never tried that with her, not even in London. He hadn’t needed to. What harm, letting her win? He had never intended to abide by his promise to avoid his hobbies in the first place. It would satisfy her need to win, and got him inside her. Blasted woman got satisfied twice in the past three days, through her shower and then the siphoning. He was through abstaining. The pleasant prospect of taking Chrissy to bed in mind, Jordan turned from the bedroom to make his way down to the den to retrieve tequila and a tumbler. He found the door to her bathroom cracked open and peeked through. His mouth went dry at the sight. Chrissy lounged back, eyes closed, dark hair piled loosely atop her head as she scowled. The tub looked to be right out of that wretched Cinderella-esque 80s movie about the prostitute and business man. Bubbles concealed much of her slender frame, but he made out the top of her lovely breasts. The red, but already fading, scar across her throat sent a cold chill down his back. They’d come so close to death. Candles lit the room in some typically feminine fashion. It might be light out, but heavy curtains blocked the sun. Seeing her there, again atypically relaxed, Jordan scowled. He’d come to realize that Chrissy had two distinctly separate sides to her, as evidenced by her array of clothes. One she showed to the general world, brash, arrogant and aggressive, with the distinct feel she kept nothing to herself and didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. A real “fly by the seat of her pants” type attitude. Then there was the other side he’d glimpsed over the past several days. While she had lain insensate, he’d studied the home she made for herself and found it not as he expected. Subdued, save for the obnoxiously pink bedroom. A tasteful wardrobe that, to date, she had drawn from only once. Even Angel, with her covetous, casual attitude toward shopping, couldn’t begin to compete with Chrissy’s stash.

Chrissy sighed softly in the tub, shifting without opening her eyes to pluck down a bottle on the ledge behind her. It was the 20year Reisling, he noticed, not tequila. She filled the delicate flute in her left hand and set the bottle aside. Her movements lacked the distinct sharp, almost masculine, abruptness they normally did, bringing to mind her appearance in London. In that gilded age, even among the aristocrats, she’d held her own with grace and delicacy. He rested his head against the doorframe, indulging in a momentary fantasy with her bound to his bed, helpless, dressed in naught but the ruby necklace he’d made for her on a whim some decades back. Until current day, he’d accepted that would never be more than passing fancy, given her ability to dissolve and retreat at will. Now though, that might not be the case. Jordan shook off the fantasy. He was already randy enough to pop with very little encouragement. Enough brooding. **** Chris sipped at her drink, taking another deep breath as she forced her muscles to relax. Too many hours cooped up with MacNaught. Her stomach curdled if she thought too long on Pierce. It wasn’t so much what Jordan did to the man. It was when she leaped in at the end, deliberately inflicted so much pain atop what he’d already suffered. All for answers he never gave. What cause so devotes a man he wouldn’t give in under that? Jordan didn’t believe in telepathic shifters. For a moment, she’d thought he was going to believe her, and then he just dismissed it. If not for the memory of Pierce’s thoughts in her head, neither would she. In London, after each hunt for one of the Aristocrats, she had buried the guilt, the self-loathing for what she’d done. Either she had drowned herself in copious amounts of liquor with Verissa, which left her stinking to high heaven the following evening, or she had indulged in hot and sweaty sex with whatever man she got her hands on shortly thereafter. She had grown much better acquainted with Donovan during those dark months. Now, she was denied either option. She’d never felt so adrift. Hot water lapped at her, the jets under the surface constantly refreshing the bubbles. The first hint she wasn’t alone came from the

quiet splash behind her left shoulder. In the midst of taking a swallow, the wine burned down the wrong passage as her eyes flew open. She sputtered, coughed, and then yelped as a firm hand whacked her between the shoulder blades. “Breathe, Chrissy.” “I don’t need to breathe.” She wheezed, sinking deep into the water. Bubbles shielded everything, though he knew what she looked like naked. Damn, he shouldn’t be able to startle her, but she’d deliberately blocked out any awareness of his presence. “Why the hell do you keep sneaking up on me?” Water sloshed before rough fabric ran along her back. Her pouf? “It’s fun. As long as you provide me with such splendid reactions, I’ll keep at it.” “Jerk.” Her retort lacked heat. How could she be cranky when she loved having her back washed? She tried again to sound cross. “What do you think you’re doing?” “In your vernacular, ‘duh’.” He imitated her quite well in that single syllable, for a Brit. She deserved the sarcasm. Talk about a stupid question. “Better question: why are you doing it? I’m capable of washing my own back.” “I never said you weren’t.” He nudged her forward a little, pouf caressing the small of her back. Though she should protest, words didn’t come. The gentle movements felt too good. She wasn’t alone. And he was probably the only person she knew who could understand what they’d done to Pierce. Not that Jordan gave a damn whom he hurt. “You find the blood distasteful,” he said softly, his breath tickling the tendrils of hair escaping the myriad hairpins holding the mass up. “As I’m responsible for getting you splashed with it, this seems the least I can do.” Maybe this was part of his game plan, get her all gooey to weaken her defenses, then swoop in and claim victory in their bet? Chris inched away and turned to look up at him. Dressed in only a black silk robe, blond hair still damp from his shower, he looked incredible. No hint of monster, just one hundred percent man. A horny man looking to score, if she took into account the southern equipment. And he thought she’d just fall for it. Riiiight.

She set aside her wine glass roughly and held her hand out. “Give me that. I’m perfectly capable of washing my own back. Get out.” The quiet, seemingly gentle side he kept showing was screwing with her head. If she didn’t watch it, she’d start liking him. At the very least, he’d make an adequate solution to burying her guilty conscience for a little while. Sex with Jordan, while frequently violent, kept her from brooding. The pouf drifted over the water’s surface when he released it to catch her hand in his. He stroked her palm and slid off the edge to kneel beside the tub. “Always hostile, Chrissy. Do you have to be so antagonistic?” Something hot and syrupy oozed through her, replacing the blood in her veins as their eyes met. She saw no darkness, no craft, just the man she’d met and been utterly charmed by in London when she rebelled against Stuffy Britches’s (she thought) idiotic concerns. “You’re upset about what we did to Pierce, what I pushed you into.” He brought her captured fingers to his lips, nibbled at her fingertips, reminiscent of earlier when he had licked the blood away. “Let me give you something better to think about, pleasure to wipe away the guilt that lingers in your face.” The bet, the bet. Her heart sped up, beat in time with her grasping to remember why he would bother with this. Jordan didn’t do gentle. Hot, fast, over with. It’s all about the— The frantic reminder cut off when the crooked index finger of his free hand tilted her chin up, and he leaned forward. He whispered, “Stop thinking, Chrissy. Please, let me do this for you.” Their lips met, his soft and persuasive on hers. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared into the deep, leaf green of his eyes. Desire heated his gaze, no threat, only questioning. She tried again, needed to know if this meant concession. “Jordan?” He kissed her again, more insistently this time, letting her hand go to curve an arm round her waist and sweep her from the water. Water sluiced over them both, no doubt destroying the silk of his robe. Jordan nipped at her lower lip, soothed the little ache with his tongue before lifting his head. “Victory is yours. I’ve asked.” Clutched against him, she didn’t mistake the brand pressing into her tummy. Either she trusted him in her bed today, or she didn’t.

She didn’t have to be alone, remain mired in self-loathing. If nothing else, he would help her forget Pierce for a time. “Yes,” she breathed, wrapping her arms around him to bury her face against his throat. A cool breeze teased her damp skin, the tile of the floor cold under foot as he eased her down. He didn’t leave her bereft for long, tugging her pink, fluffy beach towel from the rack. “Sit, you’re sopping wet.” Chris blinked. Hardly seductive because she doubted he meant it the dirty way. Not with his saturated robe and puddles of water at their feet. “That happens when a person gets yanked of the—” He cut off the last word, resting a finger against her lips. “No sniping, just enjoy. Sit.” With nowhere else to go, she eased down onto the edge of the tub. Jordan knelt in front of her, drew the towel slowly down her legs, inch by inch. By her right knee, he missed a droplet only to lean forward and lap it up. Sensations shot through her as he continued drying her. Soft towel intermixed with slightly calloused fingers, massaging, squeezing. He caressed the back of her left knee, touch light enough to tickle her one primary ticklish spot. His hand clamped down over her thigh so she didn’t accidentally kick him. Finished with her legs, he shifted upward. By the time he finished with the, to her mind, overly thorough drying process, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this aroused. All from a stupid towel and him. As Jordan rose, folding the towel conscientiously over the towel rack, her patience gave out. She jumped to her feet, grabbed him back the scruff of the neck and yanked his mouth to hers. Enough teasing already. Heat stoked inside threatened to explode into a proper bonfire as she kissed him. God, he tastes good. She pressed closing, urging him up against the wall and slid an exploratory hand beneath the silk folds of his robe to caress him. He rewarded the investigation with a sucked in breath and low growl. Then, Jordan tore his lips from hers. “Impatient, are you, Chrissy?” He grinned, easily evading her when she made to kiss him again. He caught both her hands, dragging

them behind her back to shackle them with one of his. In the same movement, he slid his thigh between her legs so she rode him. Old fears rose, trapped against him. Vampires were much stronger than mortals, but even so, he was stronger than she was. She didn’t have the leverage to break free. Damn it. Her breath stuck in her throat, and she prepared to dissolve if need be. Jordan captured her face in his spare hand, pressed a kiss over the pounding pulse in her throat. “Stop thinking.” Easy for him to say. “If I can be patient, so can you. We have all day.” He eased them away from the wall. Without letting go, he walked her backward from the bathroom to bedroom. His teeth grazed her shoulder, and adrenaline from the momentary blast of fear shifted quickly into fuel for desire. “I’ve no intention of rushing anything.” Her eyes narrowed. “We don’t do patient.” “Mm.” He inhaled, as if trying to draw her very essence into his lungs. “Today we do.” His mouth found a new spot, one with a direct line to her clit, and fangs scraped against the spot a second later. No danger in sharing blood any more. Chris closed her eyes as her head fell back, and she moaned softly. Just go with it. Don’t think. Don’t question and for God’s sake forget just who makes you feel so good. The reprimand was familiar; she used the same one every single time they crawled all over each other. Otherwise her conscience got the better of her. The pressure on her wrists slackened as Jordan lowered her atop the plain cotton coverlet. He shucked off the robe and flicked it back toward the bathroom where it plopped loudly onto the tile floor. Totally naked now, he settled over her, his chiseled body heavy in all the right ways. His thigh pressed hers apart while his mouth suckled on her right breast, nipple already pebble hard. When his tongue flicked against the sensitized surface, Chris buried her hands in his hair. Jordan lifted his head, breaking free of her grip, hot green gaze taking all of her in before slowly, deliberately, pressing her hands back into the mattress. “No.” “I want to touch you.”

He cut the protest off with a swift kiss. “Let me please you, Chrissy. I’m close enough that it wouldn’t take much to drive me over, and that’s not the point.” “That’s not—” He shifted downward again, bit her nipple. Not hard enough to cause real pain, but it gained her undivided attention. She arched off the bed with a whimper, felt moisture pool between her legs. Heat pulsed, energy passing from his fingers into hers. She’d never dared relax her hold over her inner power during sex, never risked the Sharing, for fear of discovery. The old saying, Once you go mage, you never go back, flitted through her head. His blond head bent, working his way south. Jordan’s tongue dipped into her belly button once, twice, and then he licked lower. Ever lower. When he hovered just above her mound, blowing warm air across the aching flesh, she reached for him again. “Stop playing with me!” He chuckled huskily. “I’m just getting started.” She tried to pull free, wanting to drag him close and get on with it, anything before he wormed his way through her caution and touched anything beyond just her body. God forbid she feel anything deeper than distrust. He linked their fingers, grip not painful but firm and unyielding, to still the movement. “Damn it, MacNaught.” “You’re thinking again,” he said before giving her core a long, languorous lick. Her protest died before she could say any more. So close; she was so damned close now. Chris moaned, writhed against the constant pressure pressing her into the mattress. His body moved up against hers. Unable to meet the steady, all-too-confident expression, she closed her eyes again. Prayed it didn’t end with a stake through the gullet or something nasty like that. God, he felt so perfect. Jordan licked her earlobe, nibbled on the delicate shell. “You’re going to beg to come before I’m finished, Chrissy.” “Bullsh ….” A sharp tug on her lower lobe cut the curse off. “Never happen.” Velvet rasped against her throat as he chuckled wickedly, lavishing attention along her collarbone and shoulder. “Count on it.”

“Never.” Hell if she’d beg him for anything. Though, squirming to find some relief, finding it impossible to close her legs with him in the way, the faintest hint of doubt crept in. This was just sex, great sex maybe, but still just sex. “We’ll see.” Jordan paused, tapping her right wrist. “Don’t move this.” The pressure against that hand vanished, and his fingers found their way back to the cleft of her thighs, stroking the length with a touch so light she might have imagined it. Chris forced air through her lungs, tried to calm her pounding heart without success. He found her breast again, bathed it, and then took the tight peak between his teeth once more. She curled her legs around his, desperate to ease the ache his teasing touches kept giving her. “You’re driving me insane.” “That’s the idea.” The pressure against her clit remained constant while he lavished attention on her breasts. Over, and over, and over, until she wanted to scream. She clenched the coverlet in her freed hand, aware of the pressure on her other side. The feeling of restraint, light as it was, was odd, but something in it thrilled her. Finally he left off her breasts and trailed kisses, caresses, the same thorough consideration to her belly, over the hyper-sensitive newly healed flesh from Pierce’s assault, and then her inner thighs. The tidal wave built within, the tingle of magic swirling through them. With him wedged between her legs, she couldn’t try to relieve the pressure he skillfully built in her that way. Chris squeezed her eyes shut. Beg, her ass. Only in his dreams! The ceiling fan above circulated the air, tickling skin damp from his kisses. The chill of the breeze contrasted sharply from the inferno that raged within. At long last, he finished with her legs. The sweet agony of his fingers ceased their torment. Yes, dear God, lick me there. It wouldn’t take but a second. Not even a second, hell. Not even a damned nanosecond. Sweet release. She willed him to close the inches between them. Jordan brushed the outer edge with a kiss, then to her utter frustration, began a new trail of fiery kisses across her abdomen. No further stimulation. Chris growled. “Son of a mage-born.” She reached for him with her free hand.

He caught her fingers, trapped them back against the coverlet, and glanced up with a knowing grin. “I can end this at any time, my dear. It just requires a few little words from you.” He kissed her again, but even in that he teased and wouldn’t give her more than the lightest caress, clearly familiar with how close she was. They knew each others’ bodies too well. She bit back her scream. “I can go along this bent for hours. We have the entire day. Can you?” Hours? But, but, he’d said he was close! Chris bucked, but couldn’t dislodge him. She couldn’t survive hours of this; she’d melt into a big ol’ puddle of Chris mush. Aw, screw it. I’m getting off not being in control, and what’s a little pride? Once isn’t gonna kill me. I hope. Gritting her teeth, she whispered, “Please.” Petal soft, his thumb caressed the center of her palm as he teased the underside of her jaw. “Hm? I didn’t quite catch that.” With his vamp’s sharp hearing, she knew damned well he’d heard. He just wanted to rub it in now. She didn’t care anymore. “Please, damn you!” His tongue dipped into her clavicle, flicked out to lick the beads of sweat pooled there. “Please what? Please draw this out longer, please make you scream, what?” Chris surged restlessly against him. Once the words started, she couldn’t stop them. “Come inside me, please. I can’t take it any more. Hard, fast, just fuck me!” His mouth on hers cut the flow off in a hot, carnal kiss. His thoughts touched hers. “Told you so.” Magic flowed, no longer checked by either of them. Chris heard crackling, knew it wasn’t real just her subconscious providing aural demonstration of magic unbound. Jordan drove inside and took her straight to the precipice. Then he held her there. Chris’s body shook, but he held fast. So close now. He pulled back, until only the tip remained inside, then thrust all the way home with a force that ground her into the bed. Chris shattered, screamed his name when his fangs sank into her neck. A triple climax, possible only for blood-magi, together of blood, magic and sex, spiraled through her body.

Jordan growled with his own release and collapsed against her.

Chapter Fourteen Comments from a VampiresForever.bnha.org forum: MageBornGroupie16B: Just read an awesome article and wanted to share by clicking here. I know that blood-mages are forbidden, but they gotta be the luckiest bastards ever. Check out all the ways the study shows they can get off! VFAdministratorCJ: First – the US government wastes too much money on pointless research. Second – It’s great to be a bloodmage, I’m sure. Right up until the Council orders your execution.

Much as she wished otherwise, reality didn’t wait long before settling back in. That was Jordan’s fault, squishing her as he lay atop her, no sign of moving off. The old claustrophobia, kept at bay while he tormented her flooded back. Chris planted her hands on his shoulders and shoved. He acquiesced, sliding out of her body to lie on his side next to her. The movement triggered a gentle flood of pleasure that she resolutely ignored. She’d done enough damage without allowing him any more satisfaction at what he’d done. Jordan sighed, rested his head on his hand, and studied her. “You’re already thinking again, aren’t you?” What, he wants pillow talk now? Chris rolled off the bed, hunted for something quick to don. It came in the form of an oversized Jacksonville Jaguars football jersey that draped halfway to her knees. The perfume she’d worn the last time she wore the jersey would help clear her senses of Jordan. “At least we got that out of the way.” She yanked her tangled hair through the neck. Now to dislodge him from her bedroom so she could find some way of justifying the indignity of begging for an orgasm from anyone, much less the sociopath.

A second, more aggrieved, sigh wafted from her bed as he sat up. “Why do you fall back on being angry, Chrissy?” Because it’s easy. Anger means not focusing on the most incredible orgasm I’ve ever had in my life. She didn’t say that, instead clung to bitchiness. “You don’t like the ‘tude, get out. I’m heading to New York in a few hours to spend a couple of days trying to forget Orlando.” Completely at ease naked, Jordan leaned his weight back on his palms on her bed. “We avenged the death of my wife. And a member of the Circle. The Aristocrats started this cycle of violence, not you or I. There is nothing wrong in what we did.” Her gaze fell on his slender fingers as they absently smoothed a wrinkle from the coverlet. The part of her that ached for his touch even now leaped into action. Her nipples tightened again, and she crossed her arms over her chest defensively. “It is part of our very nature to be predators, to prey upon the weak.” “I watched you torture a man until he was all but dead. Until there was nothing left but a quivering mass of flesh and shattered bones.” And Pierce never broke. The temporary wall around the memory threatened to crack. She didn’t want to talk about this, lose what little sense of peace sex gave her. “What did we get out of that?” She paced, anything to avoid looking at him, so relaxed. Why couldn’t she find that calm, or alternatively, why couldn’t he have the decency to give a damn about hurting people? What does that say about me, that I like someone like that? “In the end we didn’t learn anything of use.” “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. According to you, Pierce confirmed Ares is one of them, and a dream-walker, too. That’s valuable. And then there was the name he yowled while you were in the kitchen. A, um, Vincent Benjamin I believe it was.” Chris blinked, stumbled without stopping her forward motion. Vinnie? She missed something apparently. Jordan shot off the bed and yanked her to a halt, all trace of sleepy, sated male gone in an instant. “You know this name?” Damn it all. She didn’t want to tell him how she knew Vinnie, bring Dee up now of all times. So she hedged. “Yeah, ah, he dated a

friend. He introduced me to Pierce, actually. Were-lion or something.” A dark look flitted across his face. His nude state did nothing to lessen the impact of that frown. “Provide me his direction, and I’ll pay him a call.” He wouldn’t be selling Girl Scout cookies. Crap, she couldn’t send Jordan after Vinnie until she checked into his possible involvement. What if she sent him after an innocent man? She grabbed the first thing that came to mind. “Dude, you can’t just go torture him. It’s not the only way to get information.” “No, but it’s the most fun.” She pulled out of his grasp and rubbed her temples. He couldn’t go torture Vinnie, not now and not for twenty years, she realized. But she didn’t want to be anywhere near him when he found out about that, much as he deserved it for forcing the blood-bond. Best to send him down another path for the moment. “Torture isn’t fun.” He snorted. “I beg to differ. I have nine hundred plus years of experience to the contrary. What did you have in mind?” “You’re a blood-mage. Act like it. Use a waking dream like you did on me with Anthony. Make him see you as Pierce, whom he presumably trusts, and ask him.” The anguish put on hold through sex was coming back, and she was turning into quite a little bitch. The little voice in her head whispered, You’re always a bitch. Be honest. You’re just unloading on him because he won’t care. The only sign he’d heard her, might consider the suggestion, came in the tilting of his head, though he dropped his gaze to the floor. Chris ground her teeth together. Enough was enough. “Get out, Jordan. I’m not gonna tell you again. There’s no need to hover!” Get out before she snapped, punched him. What she had done to Pierce at the end emphasized how close she might be to turning into Jordan. It didn’t matter Pierce killed people. The predator in her wanted out. After two hundred years locked away, the beast threatened to break loose. Jordan’s presence made the dark temptation ten times worse. He wouldn’t think her evil. I’m not like him. I’m not. “What upsets you more, Christine?” She almost missed the soft question, sunk as she was in the morass of her questionable

conscience. He glanced over at her, a faint smile curving the edge of his mouth. “That we killed Mr. Townsend, or that you want to unleash the predator in you again?” Hearing her shame verbalized sent her world reeling. Chris squeezed her eyes shut and hunched over until she forced the surge of grief and regret back behind the wall where she didn’t have to feel them. That done, she stomped over to her closet to retrieve her duffle bag. “Fine. If you won’t leave, I will.” Get to the airport. There’ll be an earlier flight. “You know, I’ve been thinking about you, about us really, a lot in the past few days.” Jordan leaned against her dresser, arms and legs both crossed. Smugness colored his entire demeanor. No more quiet introspection. “Regardless of what we just did, there is no ‘us’. I’m surprise you’d use such a word. ‘Us’ implies a team, partners. God knows you’d never consider a woman as a partner.” She slammed the duffle on her bed for emphasis. Arguing beat the weird friendliness. Her hands shook until she clenched them into fists. The need for something, blood or violence despite the plethora of both in the past day, gnawed at the corner of her mind. “We’re very alike, you know, even excluding our mutual blood-mage status.” Chris ground her teeth together and headed for her shirt drawer, prodding him out of the way. “We’re both brilliant, flawed in ways the world doesn’t understand and can’t accept, and killers both. I’m just more honest about it than you are.” She found her faded FGCU t-shirt and dumped it on the bed before turning to face him. A heavy hank of hair fell into her face until she tucked it behind her ear. “Don’t you dare compare us. You’re a fucked up sociopath, Jordan. Murder, torture, it’s all the same to you. As long as you’re entertained, you don’t give a wererat’s flea about who gets hurt. You like people’s suffering.” He shrugged, unfazed by the accusation even when she ended it with her finger poking him in the chest. “Very true. I don’t hide any more than I have to, to survive in the modern world. The human laws are nothing more than an inconvenience, meant to protect the rotters from those like us.” He plucked her finger away from his chest with

two fingers and let go. “I will never apologize for what and who I am, my dear. I like who I am. Which is a fair sight more than you can claim.” She liked herself just fine. Most of the time. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself, and I’m nothing like you!” Maybe if she kept repeating it, she’d believe it one day. Pierce, and her actions, proved how close she came. Only for the greater good. He hurts and kills innocents. I don’t. His head lifted, leaf-green eyes meeting hers with a hint of the monster she knew too well. Her heart skipped a beat at his quiet, “Oh really?” “Absolutely not.” She took a step back. How did he turn the psycho on and off so easily? “Are you sure?” I’m not, damn it. Chris took another step back, not sure she wanted to present him with her back right then. “Positive.” “What do you think Viscount Seercy would say to that? Or perhaps Lucien DeMille?” A pillar of ice encased her entire body. Those names. She’d buried them so deep she never thought of than any more. “Not ringing any bells? No fast and easy retort?” He tsked softly. “Mayhap Lady Catherine or Priscilla Newman sound more familiar? I can list them, one by one, if you like.” Chris sank onto her pillow-top mattress and buried her trembling hand under the pillow. Her fingers brushed metal, one of the knives she always kept there, cold and comforting. His stillness reminded her of a great jungle cat on the hunt, preparing to strike. Which made her prey. Fury forced her chin up as her concealed hand curled around the familiar hilt. Hell no. “You know damned well why I went after them. It had nothing to do with enjoying hurting people.” When he moved, he used the same feline grace, sauntering forward. Jordan stopped inches away and stared down at her. “Don’t lie to me, or yourself. You hunted them because you couldn’t hurt the person you wanted to, me.” She didn’t blink, refused to look away, caught by the fact that he was absolutely right. But Jordan deserved to die, damn it. He was nothing more than a monster.

Liar. He’s so much more than that, as you’ve seen since he showed up. “You liked watching them suffer, making them pay for what they did to others. Just like you watched me with Pierce last night.” Jordan trailed a finger down her cheek. Goosebumps raced over her arms at the caress. He wanted, expected, a reaction, and she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. “I’ve been your victim, Christine. You could have killed me if you tried, rather than leave me for the flames.” She forced air through her lungs, feeling the hunger for blood rising again. Not like the all-encompassing threat of a rage, but the surge that came when she freed her predator. “I know what I did. You deserved it and more.” “The point remains, you enjoyed watching the pain you caused. Just. Like. Me.” “I’m not evil.” Chris tilted her head back to meet his gaze. Once again the monster in him disappeared. “I didn’t say you are.” “You said I was like you.” “In enjoying suffering under the right circumstances, yes.” With the monster gone, his tone took on a strange sincerity, and she found she couldn’t look away. Jordan settled on the bed and took her hand in his. “You’re not me, and never could be.” Confused, her brow furrowed. “Then what are you trying to say?” “I’m emphasizing our similarities. We both have faces we show the world, and then there’s who we really are.” He’d clearly been in her closet. “You hide behind the abrasive, aggressive woman, trusting that persona to keep anyone from looking deeper. Your friends are fools that they don’t see the truth. The veneer is no deeper than gilt on costume jewelry.” Did she somehow jump through the fabric of reality into an alternate universe, one where Jordan was actually human? Maybe that was his point, he wasn’t necessarily totally scary and evil. “And you?” “The Bloody Baron has his uses. I don’t care about most people, and if they’re afraid of me, they don’t waste my time. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I enjoy the activities that go into my public

persona, but that isn’t the totality of who I am. I like opera, horses, and playing cricket to name just a few of my interests.” “And you’re telling me this why?” He ran a distracted hand through his mussed hair and shrugged. “We’re going to have to deal with one another for a very long time. It’s not beneficial for our, ah, relationship if you’re constantly wondering if I’m about turn on you. I want things to be different between us than they have been.” “Thus, um, earlier?” Chris tugged her hand out of his and stared at the far wall. Great, she got good sex and blew the beginnings of what might be a peaceful coexistence once he found out what she’d done. Peripheral vision caught him as he reached out to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “In part, yes. I was curious about something.” She glanced at him but didn’t ask, refused to consider what he’d been curious about. Curiosity, in his case, probably did kill cats. Jordan pushed up and padded into the bathroom to retrieve his bathrobe. She leaned to the side to admire the taut butt the movement revealed. Lord, she loved his ass. Hard, perfect shape, everything. Oh dear God, Chris, get a grip, and not on his dick like you want to. You just had sex. No more drooling. The bizarre calm and almost paternal air passed away as he turned back. Unfortunately, she didn’t yank her stare off him in time to avoid getting caught in the act. Jordan smirked at her, the little shit. To his credit, he didn’t rub her nose in the matter. “Get dressed, and meet me down in your basement. I’m going to teach you how to block off your dreams, and then if we have time before your flight, how to block off mine as well.” With that, he walked out, leaving a very confused Chris in his wake. “He mood swings worse than a woman pregnant with twins.” **** The best thing about hotel sex, Chris decided as she stuffed an extra pair of jeans in her pink duffle bag, was leaving immediately upon completion. Instead, she’d been stuck in the townhouse, large though it might be, with Señor Psycho for more than six hours afterward.

They never, ever spent this much time together. After the strange conversation earlier, she wasn’t sure what to think or how to act any more. Jordan had figured out what no one, not even Anthony, had, the dichotomy of how she lived, and that left her adrift. Dee, Donovan, and Anthony all knew she was a shop-a-holic, but they never looked beyond outdoors Christine. And until Jordan had pointed it out, she hadn’t realized how much she resented the fact that they never looked past the easy, outside her. Yes, she’d chosen to create the wild-child persona, but you’d think one of her best friends would notice there was more to her than that. At least she could close her dreams to invasion by Ares, or any other dream-walker that might show up. She hadn’t managed to lock Jordan’s door in the dream passage, but he’d assured her such skill and certainty came with time and practice. Her heart jumped for joy at that notion, not! “You never explained why you’re going to New York. Is it necessary?” Despite her best efforts, he kept hovering, and that didn’t sit well at all. Even a polite “go away” hadn’t worked, and given his warning after she’d last used her talents on him, she wasn’t willing to take the chance of giving him a “nudge”. He was flipping through her CD case. “Yes. As per the agreement, it’s part of my pre-existing arrangements.” Her heart gave an uncomfortable flutter at mention of the agreement. She’d already prepared the text to send as her plane took off. “Donovan and I go every year.” A ghost of a smile flickered across his face, but he said only, “Do give Mr. Tate my best, won’t you?” “I’ll pass. It’s bad enough he knows you were here.” She couldn’t wait to get to New York. Retail therapy was just what she needed to finish cleansing her psyche of the Orlando mess. Throw in a few hours hanging out with Donovan, and all would be right again. Going to her closet, she pulled two LeTourneau dresses down, one a black sheath with plunging neckline and slit up the side to the top of her thigh and one white cocktail dress with a sweetheart neckline and hem that fell just halfway to her knees. In front of the mirror, she held both up and pictured wearing either to the theatre. Which dress suited her better? “Might I venture an opinion?”

“Nope.” It would feed his ego if she took his advice. “Black isn’t your best color,” he said, as if she’d never spoken. “White isn’t either, but it’s better than black. Jewel tones suit you and your skin-tone best. If you go with the black, lighten it with something dramatic, garnets or perhaps even sapphires.” “I didn’t ask.” Hanging both up, she decided to find something better while in the city. “While I hesitate to say this because it sounds downright domestic, lock up when you leave, and leave my key in the geode.” “You should consider joining me in Miami for the weekend. See what Celtic has to offer in the coming year.” “Eww, hell no.” She could think of worse things to occupy her time on the weekend than spending it at some fancy jeweler’s convention – being buried alive topped that list – but not many. “I made arrangements for fresh supplies to be dropped off some time tonight, so you shouldn’t go hungry or anything.” “Maybe I should tag along.” He retook his place on the bed to finish flipping through the album. Her eyes widened at the horrific notion. “Ares might figure out you’re still alive and send another minion your way.” “The only reason he got the jump on me was because we didn’t know he was out there. Now we do, so I’ll watch my back. I don’t need a keeper.” Least of all you. God knows what trouble you’d get me into. Sex would be involved, no doubt. Hot, yummy, allencompassing sex. Chris mentally smacked her libido until it whimpered and slithered back into her subconscious. “That’s debatable. But very well. I’ll be back on Sunday night some time, and we can pick up the chase then.” “There’s no ‘be back’. You’re staying in Miami. This isn’t a hotel, and you’re not a welcome guest.” Chris yanked the zipper shut on her bag and checked the contents of her laptop case to be certain she had included all the appropriate cords. “There’s less reason for you to stay now than there was twelve hours ago. Reset clock and all that.” “Some might say there’s even more reason for me to stay,” Jordan said lightly, catching hold of the hair that fell over her shoulder to tug her closer. “We both enjoyed ourselves. As there are no emotional or legal connections elsewhere, why shouldn’t we continue doing just that?”

Was he trying to suggest they, like, date? No way, no way in hell. “I want you gone until I find some other lead on the Aristocrats to follow.” He gazed up, eyes sharp as he studied her. “Yes, well, we don’t always get what we want, Chrissy.” “Stop calling me that. I’m gonna deck you one of these days.” Jordan trailed the tips of her hair just below the scar on her throat, tickling the skin. “By all means, try. The only outcome from that will be you, flat on your back, with me buried inside you.” Woohoo! Chris cleared her throat. It didn’t help, as she discovered when she squeaked instead of snapped, “Only in your dreams, MacNaught.” “In my dreams, Chrissy, you’re naked, handcuffed, and on your knees.” The aforementioned knees threatened to buckle because she had no trouble conjuring the image up, and for one insane moment, she wanted to try it. Close as they were, she didn’t miss the gleam in the leaf-green eyes staring into hers. He didn’t say anything immediately, didn’t have to, as he leaned up and nipped the side of her neck. The sting sent a tiny shockwave through her body, and she grew damp. “Clearly I’m not the only one who likes the idea.” “I better go,” she croaked. Screw the whole show no fear crap. “Gotta get to the airport. Later.” **** Jordan made no move to stop her, just sat back and smirked as she scooped up her duffle and laptop case. For a woman who claimed sexual freedom, she blushed so easily. “Enjoy New York, my dear. I’ll see you Sunday.” He bit back a laugh when she walked into the wall in her flustered state. She said, “Nope, still can’t phase through stuff. Damn.” Jordan bit back his snicker, quite pleased with leaving her flustered. Chrissy didn’t glance in his direction, just ducked through the door. Less than a minute later the front door slammed shut. Satisfied by the confusion he sparked, he tucked his hands behind his head and lay back on her pillow. It smelled like her, clean and sweet. Always nice to have one’s suspicions confirmed. The dream he’d sent her into while in the shower days ago had heightened

his belief about hidden fantasies of hers, and he couldn’t mistake the immediate response when he’d held her down during sex earlier. The only moment that marred his memory of their time was the terror he had seen before passion overrode it. Something that in another man might be guilt wormed into his stream of consciousness. He didn’t want her afraid of him any more. Most women, he liked their fear, and he wanted nothing more than to rip them apart like the useless creatures they were. Not Chrissy though. He wanted a willing partner in her, willing submission. Some part of her craved it, too, of that he no longer harbored any doubt. Unfortunately, if he wanted willing, he needed trust, and that he didn’t have. Hell, he wouldn’t trust him either, based on their past. The question, therefore, became what he might be willing to do to achieve his goal? Other than his upcoming meeting with Athdara, he could see no anticipated behavior on his part that she might find objectionable. Despite his reputation, which he certainly enjoyed fostering, he hadn’t done anything reprehensible in close to a century now. Even the most recent hunt with Raphael had only been a matter of good manners, after the man had gone to such trouble. Being near Chrissy further curbed his craving for mayhem. He’d never spent long enough in her company to notice the calm she fostered. He found he rather liked not being driven by the need to maim and destroy. Not on a permanent basis, naturally, but he found the mental peace for even a short time refreshing. With Angel gone, her major objection to an ongoing liaison with him was gone as well. He couldn’t undo the past, nor did he want to, but he could try different behavior in the future, make a conscious effort to refrain from activities she might not appreciate. Use her as a moral compass of sorts, he supposed, since he didn’t have one of his own. Humming to himself, he began running down a checklist of things he needed to do before he saw her on Sunday night. Run while you can, Chrissy. **** Jordan’s good mood lingered for more than two hours. Absorbed in creating a small focus out of a turquoise pendant he found in her jewelry box, he almost missed the tiny trill from his mobile. He still hadn’t found her jewelry stash. Likely in the safe he’d

unearthed an hour or so earlier. Concentration destroyed by the noise, he sighed. So much for that attempt. He recognized her number and clicked open the message. Short and to the point: See the envelope I left for you under the keyboard in my office. Brows drawn together, Jordan cast aside the pendant and padded to her main office. He found the indicated envelope with his name scribbled on the front. “What are you up to?” He slit it and pulled out what he quickly recognized as the binding curse. Cold stole through him, and he scanned the note paper clipped to the first page. Never sign anything you haven’t read from front to back just before you sign. Page five. I win. Jordan collapsed into the chair, stunned by the implication. You sneaky bitch. You wouldn’t dare. He flipped quickly through the document to the indicated page and saw the dark pink ink that hadn’t been there the last time he looked. An arrow directed him to the back of the page where the writing continued. He hissed softly. In words close to what he recalled of their conversation, she’d added the thrice-bedamned bet in the binding curse. How the devil did I get so careless? Could she have used her gifts to “encourage” him to skip a final reading? Jordan doubted it. She wasn’t very good at subtlety. He shook his head in disgust. The woman was making him lose his edge, and that was unacceptable. Still, he wasn’t bored any more. Momentary upset over, he opened his eyes and smiled. He found it impossible to remain angry over the nefarious trick when, if he’d but thought of it, he would have done the same thing. If she wanted to play dirty, he’d be more than happy to get in the mud with her. Reaching out with his thoughts through their blood-bond, he left her with a single, brief message. “What happens next is entirely on your head. Have a lovely trip to New York. We shall talk when you get back.” He slammed shut the connection. Shoving out of her chair, he sauntered back up the stairs into his bedroom. Other than the nasty little Aristocrats scurrying about, life couldn’t be better.

Chapter Fifteen From ‘The Idiot’s Guide to Being a Vampire (Chapter 8, Things to Avoid): Though this should go without saying, do try to avoid injuries that might kill you. Vampires are ageless, not immortal. If you get your head cut off, you will die like anyone else. If you take a stake through the heart, you go ker-splat. If, by some miracle, you survive massive trauma (see section on injuries by wood for more details about staking), be prepared to live with scars for your lifespan. Your body can only heal so far. Fire’s a bitch. As the public service announcements say, don’t play with matches, kids!

We shall talk when you get back. Those words stuck with Chris and effectively ruined what should have been an awesome day of shopping and hanging out in New York. It didn’t stop her from buying a spectacular, dark-purple chiffon one-shoulder evening dress with a jeweled empire waistband. She didn’t intend it for the theatre with Donovan, but it looked good on her. She just needed the right necklace to go with it, something to hide the hideous scar left behind by Ares’s flunky. Online shopping to the rescue! She couldn’t shrug off all responsibility though, try as she might. She ended up spending a good portion of Wednesday at the main branch of the New York Public Library. After bribing her way into the archives, for which monies she fully intended to get repaid by either Anthony or Jordan, she lost herself in a hunt for any information on telepathic shifters she could find. Unfortunately, other than a few references to the “Guardians of the Phase”, which turned out to be a group of mage-born and shifters who’d formed an alliance to protect against some unknown enemy – the details were incredibly vague – she came up empty. That phrase made her think of Jordan’s knife and Catriona Kerrich. Maybe

Jordan knew more than she could get out of the books, or maybe he would come back with her to New York. She couldn’t read many of the archives, given her language deficiencies. By Thursday morning, she still couldn’t shrug off the ominous statement, though Jordan stayed out of her thoughts. His silence heightened the wary anticipation, probably exactly what he intended. She kicked back on the couch of Anthony’s spacious Manhattan apartment and sighed irritably while waiting for her laptop to boot up. Having stayed at the condo every time she came to the city, the concierge hadn’t batted an eyelash when she breezed in a day earlier. She logged into her home system. As soon as she did, her screen flashed with a big pop-up alert. Information found. Do you want to view? Chris whooped, mood instantly improving as she hit the “yes” key and skimmed the data. “Got you, you son of a bitch. Brad Connors, you’re gonna wish you’d never crossed Stuffy Britches.” Her friend didn’t tolerate thieves, especially when he was the victim of the theft. This proved her spell worked. Anthony needed to know what she’d found. And, maybe Jordan, too, though the request for the search pre-dated her arrangement with him, so she wasn’t required to pass the information along. She yanked out her cell phone and punched in Anthony’s number and filled him in on the situation, but strung him a few BS lines about the difficulty involved. Really, other than the power to create the spell, the search for information had gone surprisingly fast. Chris barely managed to stay still long enough to tell the entire tale, and glossed over just how she got into SRI. The little details would only confuse the poor man. Satisfied that she probably wouldn’t find anything else of import, despite words to the contrary to Anthony, she halted the search. The invasion she’d found days ago was bugging her, and she wanted to look into it. SRI and Savage didn’t pay her huge consulting fees every year to sit on her ass when she found something funky going on. Bringing up the spell she’d used to ferret out information on Connors, she studied the code to see what needing tweaking to figure out what got put into SRI’s computers. It didn’t take much, since she was basing it off her original search, and that was where she’d found

the leak in the first place. She hopped to her feet and went to the bedroom to retrieve her duffle bag. She’d stuck Jordan’s sapphire necklace in there the other day, rather than leave it in her truck in the airport’s econo-lot. Might as well use the stupid thing since Charlie’s in Fort Myers. Once settled back in the living room, Chris made the edits and took a deep breath along with focusing her magic deep within. Here goes nothin’, I guess, she thought and hit enter. Power flowed through her hands into the keyboard and sent the spell flying out through the ether. The world spun dizzily around her, though she immediately recognized that the drain wasn’t quite as bad as the other night, thanks to the focus. Pleased with her efforts, though weary from them, she shut down the laptop and closed her eyes. Donovan wouldn’t land until late afternoon. A quick nap might be in order, and then she needed to find a flight to Louisiana. Who knew when Anthony might be able to make it. She certainly wasn’t jonesing to get back to Fort Myers and Jordan. Of course I’m not. **** Jordan leaned on the receptionist’s desk as she typed busily on her keyboard, his arm resting just to the side of a bottle of hand sanitizer and discreet sign from the CDC talking about a new strain of flu coming out of Africa. He appreciated the fact that he couldn’t get sick, unlike the rotters. “Tell me, Elizabeth. You could make arrangements for a courier to deliver a package for me, couldn’t you?” The human, a cheery little thing of no more than twenty-five or so, smiled up at him. “I sure can, Mr. MacNaught.” He found it reassuring to look at her and immediately have thirteen different delightful ways of destroying the innocence he saw reflected in her upward tilted eyes come to mind. He might not act on the ideas much any more, but he still had them. Offering a polite smile, he nodded and dug into his briefcase to find the plain, battered gold locket. He nodded at the three miniatures within, yellowed with age, and closed it with a snap. “Excellent. Do you have an envelope? I need to include a quick note with this.”

As she retrieved the items, he turned and surveyed the lobby, unable to repress a delighted smile. Everything looked to be in perfect harmony with his vision. Scribbling a note on the proffered stationary, he tucked both paper and locket into an envelope, sealed it and finally scrawled the intended recipient’s name on the front. “Could you be so kind as to have this delivered to the Bureau of Non-Human Affairs this morning?” Elizabeth took the envelope, glanced at the name written on it, and nodded. “Not a problem at all. It’s right across the river from here, you know. Have you met Liaison MacKechnie?” “Upon occasion, but not for some years. Mm, and while I’m thinking about it, I should be receiving a telephone call from her office some time today. Make sure it gets transferred to me immediately, won’t you?” “Certainly, sir.” She signaled for a bellhop who scampered noiselessly across the plush red and gold carpets of the lobby. “You’re in the Gold Suite on the eighth floor. If you need anything, just dial zero on your room phone, and let us know what we can do.” As the boy scooped up his luggage, Jordan nodded. Sometimes humans got funny about serving blood. If his vision held true, he would need it before nightfall, so it behooved him to inquire up front. “I can’t remember from the literature on your hotel, but does room service provide for, ah, differing appetites?” To her credit, the human didn’t bat a false eyelash. “Do you need it fresh, or will pre-packaged suffice?” There were benefits to America, he decided. The hotels weren’t quite so accommodating back home. “Pre-packaged will suffice.” “Just buzz room service when you get hungry, and we’ll do what we can to accommodate you.” “Excellent.” He smiled and followed the bellhop to the elevator. America might not be such a bad place after all, if one discounted the beastly Americans, naturally. When he stepped into the suite, any doubts he might have had vanished. Every detail was precisely as he envisioned, right down to the ceiling trim. Once he tipped the bellhop, he crossed to the sideboard and helped himself to the brandy. He needed to calm his

nerves and provide some measure of numbing against the pain to come. The knock came precisely at four. Through the blood-bond he shared with Anthony, he knew the other man to be outside, as might be expected given his overly protective nature regarding Athdara. Jordan took one final, fortifying gulp of the hotel’s excellent brandy, and opened the door to admit his guests. “Well, well, little whore. It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it? Do come in.” Jordan glanced at Caldwell, who towered over the chubby redhead at his side. “You can leave, old man. You weren’t invited, and I hardly need your assistance.” Pity about the bet clause Chrissy had stuck into the contract. Otherwise, he would consider ripping Athdara’s throat out right then and there, putting an end to the one person to ever survive him when he wanted them dead. But, sooner or later, he’d get the final blood he craved, and the satisfaction of seeing the light go out of the wretched creature’s eyes. **** While blood exchanges were common, and fun, during bedsport, Jordan found certain enjoyment in a raw exchange with nothing other than sheer hatred driving the participants. To give the woman credit, she hurt him almost as badly as he hurt her in the intimate embrace. Knowing what she intended, it took every ounce of his selfdiscipline to hold still, pretend to be lost in the stupor of the exchange when she disengaged and reared back to rake razor-like claws across his chest. Naturally, she took the opposite route the Aristocrats took. His ribs shattered under the force of a second blow, flesh rending. He screamed and collapsed to the floor. He didn’t shift in time to miss her foot on his groin and saw stars with the nauseating agony that gripped him even as he dissolved. Little whore, I will make you beg for death before I’m done, and then, just when you think it’s coming, start all over. The pain didn’t feel quite so sickening in his mist form, and he drifted in a semi-dazed haze toward the ceiling as she stalked toward the suite’s bathroom. He reformed with a stifled moan, hunched over on the floor with her half a room away. His vision hadn’t included the sight of her stomping on his dick.

“Know this, you sick son of a bitch.” Water ran in the sink. “If I wanted you dead right now, you’d be dead.” Athdara continued her rant, issuing multiple empty threats, but he lost the bulk of them as he tried to block out the pain. “Little whore.” He started, but cut off and chose discretion rather than bravado when she took a soggy step toward him. He dissolved a second time and returned to the ceiling to wait her out. Someone needed to die for this indignity. Unfortunately, thanks to the damned binding curse, his options were limited. He should share the mind-ripping agony through the bond with Chrissy, just as minor payback, but elected to keep anything from leaking through. She didn’t need to know about this incident. Anthony chirped up from the other side of the room. “Call her that again, and I don’t think I’ll even try to stop her. She really doesn’t like being called a whore.” Athdara stood, blood-stained hands on her fleshy hips and stared up at him. “Hear my warning well, MacNaught. Your days are numbered. I’m just sorry your bitch of a wife is already dead. Stay away from me and mine, or I won’t hold back next time.” On that rather vacant threat, she dissolved to stream through the curtains and under the windowsill. Like she could kill anyone, much less one as old as he. Foolish, stupid child. Hands thrust in his pockets, Anthony smiled up at him pleasantly. “Well, that was more entertaining than I expected. When she comes after you, Jordan, she’ll not be alone.” “You wouldn’t dare. Andre would kill both of you.” Not that he ever held back under that rule, but Anthony stayed within the lines. It had stayed the old man’s hand all these years already, ever since the harmless fun with Chrissy. Rocking back on his heels, the despised Viking shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. I promised Athdara your head on a platter centuries ago, or I’d have already taken great pleasure in destroying you. I’ll see she gets it, too, if it will make her smile. As a friend of mine might say, ‘Eat dehydrated shit and die, MacNaught’.” That did sound like Chrissy. “This isn’t the end, old man.” Dark eyes studied the cloud that consisted of his body, smug assurance in the set of his accursedly broad shoulders, and Anthony smiled. “We shall see. Enjoy your conference in Miami. If you can.”

Setting down untouched whiskey, poured in the early moments of the meeting between the three of them, the old man turned and strode out. He whistled what sounded like ‘Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. Once alone again, Jordan retook his human body and staggered onto the divan. The hotel would probably charge him for blood removal, but who cared? He blocked out much of the pain, but not even he could ignore it all. He groaned and reached for the phone. It would take a lot of blood to heal from such an assault if he wanted to be even remotely functional in Miami tomorrow. What was it with people wanting to kill him? **** Chris grumbled under her breath as she climbed out of the taxi. A normal vampire would just fly to the theatre and arrive without a hair out of place. But of course, she didn’t have that option. Jordan had better keep his end of the deal and teach her how to shift. Now that she knew there was a way, she didn’t want to waste time driving, or walking, or however else she got around! She quickly recognized Donovan, hands thrust into the pockets of his slacks, and tugged the hem of her cocktail dress down toward her knees. Purse hooked over her shoulder, she whistled at him. “Dude, what up? You lose your phone or something?” She’d left three messages, trying to confirm they were meeting at the theatre, and finally just gone on faith that he’d be there. Donovan grinned and crossed the square. “Sorry ‘bout that. I forgot to charge my battery. It’s back at the hotel now. I knew you’d be here. You’re dependable like that.” That’s me, good ol’ dependendable Chris, she thought with just a trace of bitterness. The aggravation she’d felt with her friends since Jordan pointed out what they all chose to overlook had grown significantly. Granted it was her own fault, for being that dependable, but still. She forced a smile. “Yeah, well, I almost wasn’t.” Hazel eyes met hers as he touched her arm in concern. “What do you mean?” “I’m gonna leave early to get to the airport. The only flight I could get to New Orleans leaves JFK at just after 10.” “Eh?” Donovan guided her off to the side of the theatre so they weren’t in the main flow of traffic. “Why? What’s going on?”

Chris fidgeted, tugging absently on the concealing collar she’d gotten to hide the scar left by Ares’s henchman. It had looked great on the shelf, black velvet with a circle of paste diamonds to match her dress, but it constricted a bit too much for her taste. Blasted claustrophobia cropped up in the weirdest ways. She wanted desperately to confide in him, but with the distance he’d been putting between them recently, she wasn’t sure she should. “Long story. I won’t bore you with it.” “Nuh-uh, girl, don’t pull that crap with me. Does this got something to do with you helping Caldwell and the Circle?” He whispered the last part of the question. “Something like that.” She patted the hand he rested on her shoulder and glanced around. “There’s not much I can tell you, but it’s not good for us. Those bodies you found weren’t the only ones.” He frowned and tilted his head to the side. “Come again?” “Yeah.” Anyone else, she wouldn’t tell, but given his involvement thus far, he deserved to know some of the story. Not the Jordan part of course, but the rest of it, at least in summary. “That’s why MacNaught showed up. The Circle’s trying to keep a lid on things, obviously, and given his history, apparently they cleared him of potential guilt and thought he’d be the logical choice to investigate.” Donovan cursed and spat, actually spat, on the sidewalk. “That asshole. You shoulda killed him in London, ‘stead of trying to burn his sorry butt.” Donovan kick at the little spit spot on the concrete irritably. “Oh, and speakin’ ‘bout the ‘Cor, sorry Talen whammied you. Never seen him react like that before.” She colored a little at the reminder of the mage-born, and her behavior while he’d screwed with her head. “Er, well, guess it worked out all right in the end.” He continued digging at the pavement with his shoe. “Yeah, well, MacNaught seemed mighty pissed about it. He threatened me, if Talen came back. Almost thought he might be worried for you or somethin’.” Donovan peered at her. “Is something going on between you two? I mean, I know what gets me all hot under the collar, and someone movin’ in on my woman would be tops of that list.” Chris shrugged, and studiously ignored his question. Jordan’s woman? They might be good in bed together, but there couldn’t be more than that between them. She knew that, and that’s the way it

should be. “I know you wanted to see this show, but I’m all fucked up, Donovan. I really could use someone to talk to, and I can’t bug Anthony with everything that’s going on. I’ll fill you in on what I can, ‘kay?” “Including this mysterious trip to the Big Easy?” he asked as he started scanning the passers-by, probably to hawk his ticket. She chuckled and gave him a quick hug. If only everyone could be as uncomplicated and puppy-dog loyal as Donovan, her life would be a lot easier. “Thanks, dude.” “S’what friends are for, right?” He gave her a crooked grin and turned to an Asian man just staring up at the sign. **** It was almost one in the morning, after more than three pints of blood, before Jordan felt better. He lazed on the large bed in the main bedroom of the suite, surfing channels without really seeing what was on. He’d bumped his flight to Miami back to late afternoon and extended his stay at the hotel by a day just so he wasn’t rushed. “Mi amigo?” Raphael’s thoughts blended with his. Jordan jolted upright at the unexpected intrusion. No rest for the wicked, the saying went. Not that he felt particularly wicked right then. “Have you made it to Cliffshead?” “Si. Your staff was most accommodating when I arrived. I have the information about Michael Hampton. You should have the picture shortly, assuming the text goes through.” “When did he die?” “Seventeen fifty. There is a notation about betrayal of king and country, siding with the Frogs.” He nodded. That matched his memory. He’d caught up with the bloke in Canada during the years leading up to what the Colonists called the Seven Years’ War. Hampton had worked for the French. “You’re positive my notation says seventeen fifty?” “Your writing is quite precise.” Most interesting. Either Chrissy’s Bureau entry about her year of conversion was wrong, or Michael Hampton couldn’t be her sire. Hampton had been only a half-century old. Nothing that would boost her power, considering what she exuded without realizing it. “Thank you, my friend. Head to the States while you can. Andre won’t be coming out of Qatar for another few days, I believe.

Best to accomplish your bond with the little whore. Caldwell may call a meeting of the Circle anyway, to discuss the Aristocrat problem.” The connection broke, and Jordan fell back against the headboard, eyelids at half-mast whilst he considered the new information. So, if he assumed Hampton didn’t sire her, that left the big question of who did. Fact one: she was too powerful for a blood-mage in their third century. He knew that because of the strength he’d felt when he realized she’d used her gifts to convince him to leave her downstairs office. Fact two: her sire must be his age, if not older, to still boost her strength above what it should be after so many years. Fact three: for such great influence, her sire must be a bloodmage. Only three people immediately came to mind capable of siring Chrissy, given the parameters. He knew he hadn’t brought her into the life. One didn’t forget a woman like Chrissy. Ares might make a good candidate, but it depended on just how old he actually was. He groaned upon considering his final suspect. One must not discount Xanthea. She claimed no offspring, yet everyone knew Andre belonged to her. They’d been together for too long for anything other than a sire/child bond. Snagging his laptop, he settled it atop the blanket and woke the machine up. One of the advantages to being a member of the Circle came in the form of access to a great deal of information. Earlier members had kept extraordinary records, especially about the Witch and her movements. Being fond of technology, he had scanned all of the Circle’s records some years back, at the same time he had Angel scan the spell books. Unlike the spell collection, he kept the the Circle records with him. He trusted no one else with the information. Plugging the flash drive attached to his keychain into the USB port, he opened the PDF titled Xanthea - Eighteenth Century. The entries consisted of little more than dry “she went here” or “rumor placed her there”. On page three, he found the information he wanted. From the crabbed script, he made out several applicable notations. The dark lady ventured to the Americas in 1729. Associate places her in Virginia Colony in 1732, visit made to Executioner at his horse farm.

Dark one seen in Sao Paulo – 1747 Ancient lady sighted in Boston. Also met with Executioner – 1752. Spies sighed great relief as the dark one left the Colonial shores – 1761. The “Executioner” title belonged to Anthony. He’d served in that role for centuries before joining the Circle. In a strange turn of events, Chrissy’s mage-born parents had left her in the care of a vampire when they passed. Which meant at some point after Xanthea’s visit, Anthony moved to Massachusetts where Chrissy lived up through the time of her conversion. Coincidence? Anthony wouldn’t sire a blood-mage. He clung to the rules. Too, Anthony wasn’t a blood-mage. Having tasted his blood during the exchange when the old man joined the Circle, Jordan knew that. Xanthea had had access to Chrissy at the appropriate time. It would certainly explain a great deal. He hummed a few bars of the opening to Les Mis as he brooded over the possibility. The Witch never did anything without a reason. Would she risk provoking the Circle to sire a blood-mage? But if Xanthea brought Chrissy over, she hadn’t offered the protection of claiming her. “I hate mysteries.” He shoved the covers and laptop back. He needed another look at Chrissy’s memory of her sire. Xanthea could have altered it, he supposed, to create the belief about Hampton. **** Thank God for long-lived batteries and WiFi on planes, Chris thought as skimmed an article. Reporters loved to inspire fear. Some new flu or another was sweeping through Africa, with cases starting to show up in Europe and Asia, and they were screaming about the next great pandemic. H1N1 all over again, when will they learn? It wasn’t much, but without her computer, she’d go crazy on the plane. At least this flight wasn’t crowded. Given she intended to drive once she landed in Louisiana, she was making the trip sober, which she normally didn’t do. Her claustrophobia notoriously kicked in when she was trapped on commercial flights. An instant message popped up on her screen. May2039 – Maya Rogers, a werewolf reporter based in Seattle. “Chris, thank God you’re online. A contact of mine from Germany just emailed me some breaking news. Still in touch with Caldwell?”

Chris frowned. It wasn’t unusual for people to contact her rather than going directly to Anthony. She typed back, “I know where I can find him, yes.” “I want a quote from the Council regarding the bodies that turned up. It’ll give me an edge on my rival at the Daily Post.” Chris’s eyes widened, and she bit down on her lip hard. Shit. Bodies? New or old? She couldn’t ask that question, so sought something almost as good. “People die all the time. What’s the big deal?” “There’s a bloodbath in Europe. Sixteen dead. Five drained with odd claw marks ripping them apart, six just drained, and the rest, they’re not sure how they died. They found the claw-marked ones dumped in a public fountain with a note claiming they were killed by the Aristocrats. The others surfaced after a bar brawl.” Oh lord. “Has the story hit any press here yet, that you know of?” “It will in just a couple of hours. S’why I wanted to get something put together fast. Might not make the paper, but I want to get it on the web. This sounds big.” Maya had no idea. “I’ll get back to you.” Closing the messaging system, she opened a browser window and began surfing. It didn’t take long for enough hits to come back that she knew the shit was splattering against the fan. The Aristocrats weren’t hiding their war against the Circle any more. The question was, whom did she tell first? Anthony or Jordan? This was not going to turn out well for the Blood. She sighed and reached out with her thoughts for Jordan. She found a barrier, but it wasn’t so rigid she couldn’t make her presence known. A moment later, it fell, and his presence swirled through her mind. “What is it, Chrissy?” “We have a big-ass problem, MacNaught. Or rather, the Circle does. Apparently the Aristocrats have decided they’re tired of you cleaning up after them, and have started leaving bodies where they can be found.”

Chapter Sixteen From the Bureau’s Licensing Division, Vampire Section – Panic Permit FAQ: Question: What is a Panic Permit (PP)? Answer: A PP allows a registrant to abandon their vehicle on the side of the road in case of daylight issues (abuses will be ticketed – i.e., using it to park curbside in a no-parking zone for a blood run). Question: Can anyone other than vampires get a PP? Answer: Only if they’re susceptible to combustion in daylight.

Jordan winced as he finished buttoning his shirt. He wasn’t the type to lie around longer than he had to, and the shower worked wonders to restore a decent mindset. He’d spent the better part of an hour after talking with Chrissy trying to reach contacts in Europe to find out what was going on there, but thus far no one knew much other than bodies had shown up. The blast of panic that slammed into him as he stood staggered him. Resting a hand against the mattress, he frowned. Not his panic of course, since he didn’t panic. No, someone he shared a blood-bond with was near hysteria. Closing his eyes, Jordan began testing each link, except Chrissy’s. She wouldn’t be in any trouble, probably just disembarking in Louisiana. To his surprise, it came from the newest bond, the one with Athdara. No wonder the feeling came through so strong. They were in close proximity. Closer in fact, he realized, than he and Anthony. Curiosity got the better of him, because something was terrifying Athdara, and it wasn’t him. He tugged the blanket on his bed in place and absently smoothed his hair back. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed he looked decent, if a bit pale.

Jordan stepped onto the balcony of his suite, breathing in the balmy Florida air. Not quite as humid as sultry Miami, with its heavy South American influence, it still made a lovely evening for flying. He leaped, shifting in mid-jump and circled up on a warm updraft, tracking Athdara’s location. On the move, surprisingly close to his present location. Had she gone back to work after the exchange? In a stroke of luck, he found her vehicle as it screeched onto the highway. She’d definitely been downtown somewhere. And, wherever she was headed, it was in a deuced rush. Her convertible, a late-model Mercedes, forced him to the top speed allowed by his bird body. No law enforcement seemed to be out, for she made the drive with no interference. They ended up on a quiet country road about twenty miles north of Tampa. Athdara pulled onto a gravel road to a two-story manse. He circled. Blood, mixed with tropical foliage, tainted the air. A lot of blood, in fact. Human and some sort of animal. He did a double take as she climbed out of the vehicle, wearing a leather halter dress. The garment showed off her ample cleavage in a manner he suspected Anthony would not approve of, prude that he was. It left very little to the imagination. He glided down to land silently on the soft top of her car. She yowled at something on the porch before bolting into the house. “Sarah! Where are you?” He retook his human body and mounted the steps. With so much blood in the air, someone must be dead or close to. He extended his senses to take in the surroundings. One human, gravely wounded. No one else. Shifters generally wouldn’t trespass on a known vampire’s territory unless they wanted a fight. MacKechnie was too valuable to the cause of “peace” to warrant an assault. He saw the kitten at the top of the steps. Black and white, only three paws left. The fourth lay discarded in a bloody stump a meter from the animal’s body. A sucking wound rested above where the heart should be. Jordan grimaced. He enjoyed torture, but what pleasure could a person get from killing an animal? Animals didn’t scream the way people did. How sick can you be? Athdara’s scream shook him out of his distraction over the cat, and he slipped into the marble entryway. Very nice décor, green and

white. A sweeping circular stairway led to the second floor. The artist in him approved the layout until he took note of the white walls dripping blood. No, just paint, he discovered upon stepping forward to peer at the markings scrawled across the otherwise pristine surface. Runes of some sort. Not Celtic – he knew how to read those. Definitely Danish. He groaned. That meant talking to Anthony. He crossed the hallway silently. Female voices filtered through an open doorway that led into a richly furnished den. Athdara knelt on the floor, a white-haired woman covered in blood cradled in her arms. Despite assuaging his blood needs earlier, hunger rose. No one could ignore it when the smell saturated the air. The little redhead crooned nonsense to the human. The only words he made out were, “Shh, shh, mon ange.” He shifted to mist just as she glanced back toward the doorway. Clearly her senses weren’t blind to everything else. Good, she possessed necessary survival instincts. The old woman said weakly, “Athdara, please.” “We’re getting help. An ambulance is on its way.” Tears trickled down the plump face as she rocked Sarah frantically. “It’s going to be all right; you’re going to be okay.” Such a blatant lie. Why bother? It wouldn’t make any difference, he mused, reforming as her attention returned to the woman. “Tell you. I—” Sarah choked, dark blood frothing out of her mouth and splattering on the black leather. “Show you. Have ….” “Show me?” Athdara blinked, blanching as she shook her head. “Oh, God.” She sucked in an unsteady breath and rested her hands on the old woman’s temples. Athdara’s jaw sagged, face still, and Jordan knew she’d entered the old woman’s mind. He stepped into the room, unconcerned now about observation, and crouched next to the oblivious pair. Or rather, he realized as a pair of clouded gray eyes stared up at him, only the whore remained unaware of his presence. He touched a finger to his lips. “Shh, human. Let the memories go.” Her eyes blinked once, and he wasn’t sure if she understood. Jordan didn’t want her awareness of him to disrupt the memory transfer.

“You saw who attacked you, hmm?” How useful, the human spending her final minutes to help her betters. Considerate of her. He rose, stared down at the pair and then reluctantly reached for Anthony’s thoughts. “Old man, you need to have strong words with your little woman about controlling her emotions.” He decided to be polite and drop the nickname for now. Athdara might gain them vital information about the damnable Aristocrats. “Her panic almost knocked me on my arse. Has she no clue that close proximity increases our awareness of one another?” Anthony took a moment to respond, clearly surprised at the contact after the scene this afternoon. “It’s none of your concern. Block her out, and go away.” “Oh, I can’t very well do that. I wonder when I feel such intoxicating terror from someone. Is the old woman her niece?” He genuinely didn’t know. Despite his threats to the old man regarding the MacKechnie line, he hadn’t been interested enough in decades to track them. He probably would have forgotten the matter entirely, had Anthony not asked for release from their arrangement a few weeks ago. The old man thought he’d given in because he was offering to bring Athdara into the Circle. Truth was, Jordan just hadn’t cared any more. He got the clear image of Anthony’s started yelp and the impression of a car veering across lanes on the highway. “You’re in the house?” “Naturally. After her stunt this afternoon, I didn’t feel like flying until I healed a bit. When her emotions spiked, I tracked her down to see what the problem was. I knew you were gone, and while I despise the little bitch, she is one of us now; and we’ve got a problem on our hands.” Another brief pause. What the devil was the man doing? “She’s lost in Sarah at the moment. If you’re inside, go to the hall, and show me what’s there. I caught a glimpse of runes when she ran inside.” So much for hoping that might be news. “I am not a sodding webcam.” Still, since he couldn’t read the writing on the wall in this case, he obliged and gave the area a thorough look-see. He didn’t care for Caldwell using his eyes, however temporarily, but until they

solved the Aristocrat menace, he would work with Anthony as necessary. “Someone had more ambition than practice. Norse runes, though they look like someone used an internet translator to garble together the message. When the authorities get there, say nothing about being able to read them.” He snorted and glared at the paint. “I can’t read them, you prat.” “I’m aware of that. More or less, I do believe the Aristocrats are about to take the war public.” At the same moment as Jordan heard a strangled gasp from the other room, Caldwell’s anxiety skyrocketed. Did no one other than Chrissy shield their emotions anymore? “Get back to the women. Sarah’s dying.” Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, unconcerned. “She’s been dying since I got here. Do keep in mind I’m not your underling, old man.” “Just go! Athdara isn’t breaking out of the link with her niece.” That changed things. He broke the connection at the same time Anthony did and bolted back to the den. Sarah lay seconds from death, no doubt. No intelligence came through the faded gray eyes any longer; she drew no more breath. Athdara gasped, face still blank which indicated she remained trapped. “How the bloody hell did I get elected to this position?” he asked no one in particular. He’d spent centuries reveling in being the villain, yet here he was about to flipping “save the girl”. He gripped her shoulder and shook. His touch wasn’t gentle, and something popped before reality flooded back to Athdara’s face. Oops, hope I didn’t dislocate something. The old man won’t appreciate her being damaged. She blinked furiously, trying to focus. “Snap out of it, little whore.” His pressure didn’t let up on her shoulder. As soon as understanding returned, Jordan released her. If she felt pain, she was out of Sarah’s death throes. Sirens wailed in the distance and mixed with Athdara’s agonized scream. She clung to Sarah like a child with a stuffed plaything. Pathetic, attachment to a rotter.

She glanced up,as if just noticing him. He inclined his head, staring right back. Something flickered across her face, and red set in around her irises. Jordan smiled. A blood rage in the offing? How fun. He left the room to open the house to the medical technicians. The EMT, Misty, according to her nameplate, rushed to take Sarah’s vitals, though anyone with a brain could tell it was dead. Across the room, Athdara stood with a lost expression on her face. Jordan breathed deeply, the heady scent of death on his tongue. The intoxicating blend of fury, fear, and death, a perfect trifecta, eased the lingering ache from her earlier assault. Hearing a soft growl, he turned from his introspection to stare at Athdara. Eyebrows arched upward when he took in the growing red. Madness lurked, one he gloried in when the opportunity arose. One could control the descent into blood rage madness, with practice. She didn’t have such control, and the rage was rising too hot and fast. He felt no sympathy for the loss. Now, what should he do about it? If he helped, he saved a human. If he didn’t help and just cleared out of the way, which any sane vampire did when faced with a blood rage, the damnable Americans would blame him for the following carnage. “Death,” she snarled, almost no remnant of Athdara MacKechnie present in stance or voice. Red-filled eyes fixed on the crouching medical technician. He licked his lips, caught up in drama before him. The tech looked up, caught by the hypnotic waves flowing from the vampire. He shuddered with pleasure at Misty’s fear. Humans fell so easily. He might not indulge in terror much any longer, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy watching. “Jordan, damn it, stop her,” came Anthony’s weak call. Exhaustion swamped the other man, and Jordan regretted not being at hand to take advantage while he could. But, mayhap in the future, there’d be another opportunity. “What the devil is wrong with you?” Even as Jordan asked the question to the other vampire, he said aloud, “I suggest you get off the ground and run away now.” Misty’s flight meant MacKechnie chased. How delightful, Athdara making her first kill in the grips of a rage. “Save the human, Jordan. If you don’t, the investigator will turn on you. We can’t afford to lose any support the Bureau might

offer.” Desperation came through, though Anthony offered no explanation. Jordan sneered at the weakness in both of his enemies. Unfortunately, given the mess in Europe, Anthony was right. He had to act here, help mitigate what damage he could. The next days would be critical for keeping censure from the Blood. Given the rotters’ tendency to believe every negative they heard about vampires, an allout assault could likely tip the delicate balance of peace and send everyone for their stakes and garlic, useless though the latter might be. Across from him, Athdara purred, “Little human.” She took a slow, seductive step forward. The hypnotic tone in her voice even called to him, reminiscent the mage–born Talen, though he didn’t fall prey as Misty did. “So alive. I want to fix that.” He eased toward the wall, better to circle in her direction without drawing attention before he was prepared. Blast Anthony for being right. The cow needed rescue. Humans always lost the battle for control against a hungry or maddened vampire. Death incarnate held Misty captive with voice and a pair of red-green eyes. “You’ll do to start, human,” she hissed with satisfaction. She sniffed the air, but didn’t glance in his direction. “Then, the demon.” Her fangs glinted in the pale light that spilled from the torch lamp in the far corner of the cozy room, enough to break Misty free. The technician scrambled back, stumbled over Sarah’s corpse. The instant she spent recovering her balance proved her undoing. Athdara grabbed her by the throat and hoisted her aloft, claws biting into soft flesh and cutting off the air supply. The human garbled, kicking frantically at empty air. “Little whore,” Jordan said, drawing near both women. “Let the bovine down right now.” He might aid their cause and save the human, but who said he couldn’t have fun while he did? If he didn’t handle this right, Athdara would snap Misty’s neck for shits and giggles rather than release her. “Wait your turn, demon,” she said, gaze fixed on her prey. The technician’s heart beat a frantic pitter-patter, and his body hardened at the panic. Such a perfect aphrodisiac: terrified woman. Except in the case of Chrissy. Blasted tangled talent debacle would weaken him if he didn’t watch himself. “I won’t ask again, little girl.” “My Sarah’s gone. I will have blood for her death.”

Good, faint reasoning still existed. It might not be much, but he could use that to create a momentary distraction. Either way, this was headed to a fight, and he didn’t need her able to shift and escape. He reached out again for Anthony. “Old man, can you block her ability to change?” It should be a simple matter since sires controlled their children. It served as excellent protection against ambitious children who might hope to end one’s existence. Athdara was Anthony’s only child though. Thanks to his machinations two centuries earlier, the two hadn’t spoken since her conversion, not until the prior week. “If need be, yes.” The Viking sounded atypically weak. Something must have happened on his end. Jordan didn’t voice the question, instead saying, “It will be. You know instinct takes over, and she’s too far gone to coax back to sanity.” That might not be strictly true. He wouldn’t bother to coax her back. He couldn’t ignore the temptation before him. Soft flesh to rend, pain to inflict. If she struck the first blow, he should be allowed to fight back without penalty from the binding curse. After considering how Chrissy had phrased things, he was relatively certain that defending himself, or even a nice round of torture wouldn’t count, as long as he wasn’t doing it just to indulge in violence. Business was business, after all, and his duties for the Circle sometimes called for extreme measures. Hopefully he was right. Boils were unpleasant. He stepped into Athdara’s field of vision and caught the hand locked around Misty’s throat, squeezing the pressure points to force her hand open. The human dropped to the ground and sucked in a frantic breath before racing for freedom. When Athdara moved to chase, he blocked her path and hoped the old man came through. She didn’t dissolve to get around him, and he took that as a positive sign. “Leave her be, little whore. There’s no fun, nor challenge, in playing with a human. Wouldn’t you much rather have at me? After all the fun I had with your little brothers?” Rage-filled eyes met his, and he saw her hesitate. Blast, enough of Athdara remained at the surface for her to be cautious. The woman knew she stood no chance of winning a fight with him while the beast would leap to attack. Time to push her over the edge. Two last vulnerabilities to attack. First, the safer one, the one he thought

would be more effective given she’d spent centuries protecting her bloodline. “Your little sister smelled sweet, young. Innocent. I would have loved toying with her, just the way I did you.” That was a total fabrication. The only thing he’d ever done to children was use them as appetizers or dessert, not sex. These days, though, the ultra young just gave him the vampire’s equivalent of heartburn. Something about the high levels of high fructose corn syrup and preservatives did bad things for his internal workings. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” She tried again to yank free, and for a moment he saw Athdara rise to the surface. Despite his desire to see her dead, he couldn’t help but respect anyone able to fight against the madness. He didn’t let her retreat. Instead, he pulled her close. So be it, only one way left to drive her over the cliff. He’d wanted to avoid such specific threats to her person. If the old man came after him for it, so be it. “I’ll do more than just touch you, little whore. Your sire doesn’t give a damn about you. He’s helping me.” That was true, in a way, and he enjoyed seeing the flicker of awareness, of hurt at the notion Anthony might not really care about her. People in love sickened him, and Anthony had moped over the woman in front of him for ages. “You’re going to wish you were back in London before I’m through with you.” The unleashed beast didn’t know the words for a bluff, and the last vestige of green vanished, along with Athdara’s conscious mind. Jordan barely leaped back in time to prevent her free fist from shattering his rib cage a second time in twenty-four hours. **** Chris hit redial on her phone for what felt like the thousandth time and listened it go to voicemail. “Where the hell are you, Anthony?” Technically, she knew his exact location, or at least the location of his cell phone. Her laptop lay on the passenger seat of her rental, and she saw the trace on his phone blink steadily. It stopped moving about twenty minutes earlier. Not at Brad Connors’s, just along the highway. A damned strange place to pull over. Why, oh why, hadn’t she blood-bonded with him?

Desperation even prompted her to unbrick the wall separating her thoughts from Jordan’s, only to find a similar one on his end. The little shit. After the conversation on the plane, she’d expected him to be a bit more open toward her. They had a really big problem on their hands. Dee wouldn’t pick up her phone. It made no sense for everyone to be out of touch. Dee and Anthony together, fine. Jordan though? At least she knew beyond a shadow of doubt he remained alive. The other two, what if the Aristocrats had taken them out? She peered into the blackness ahead, lamps few and far between in the remote section of Louisiana. Any time now, she’d get to his phone. Hopefully the phone was with him. Chris rounded a bend in the road and prayed she didn’t blow past a speed trap. Her headlamps lit up the car pulled to one side. It was a luxury sedan, lights on, with a tall figure slumped against it. It matched the location on her laptop, so she pulled up behind and cut her engine. As she climbed out, the figured groaned and collapsed. **** Jordan leaned over the unconscious Athdara in the dark woods behind her house to examine her. His body ached from new wounds and old. Pleasure from the fight mixed with pain. Anthony’s presence had disappeared the second the battle ended, and Jordan didn’t really care to investigate the reason for it. He glowered at the woman at his feet. For an untrained fledgling who refused to kill, she had done well. He didn’t care for the modicum of respect the performance, plus her near success at fighting off a blood rage, engendered in him. A shaft of moonlight highlighted her skin and caressed the delicate web work of scars revealed by her torn and scanty clothes. His finest and longest lasting piece of human art ever. Such a lovely tribute to his skill. He took her hand in his and traced the perfect rose carved there. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he lifted his face to sniff at the air. Is someone here? Damned if he could find a trace of an observer though. Barely healed ribs from earlier were broken again, and blood oozed from a myriad of smaller cuts. She had almost unmanned him again. Twice in one day, the little bitch.

“What the blazes am I supposed to do with you? I’m not carrying you back to the house.” He expected the Bureau to be there and didn’t feel like answering questions right then. Naturally, she didn’t respond. Jordan sat with a groan. The world hosted thousands of research companies. Why couldn’t one of them develop painkillers for the Blood? “Well, that was fun to watch,” said a deep voice from overhead. He leaped to his feet and almost toppled over when his knee, injured in the brawl, gave way. He snarled, peered through the gloom. According to his senses, no one was there. Shifter or vampire older than he, the voice sounded familiar. “Show yourself.” A tall, dark-haired man obligingly dropped out of a nearby tree and brushed twigs from his clothes. Even from the distance, Jordan registered the man’s size, several centimeters taller than he and much broader, and calculated the survival odds of flight versus fight. Flight won, but decampment left Athdara unprotected. Neither Anthony nor Chrissy would appreciate the defection, and he might need either or both of them in the days ahead. No sense annoying everyone. Palpable anger radiated from the stranger, though none came through when he spoke again. “For a time, I thought the girl might win.” “Not likely.” Insulting, the very notion he’d lose to a woman. Certainly not Athdara MacKechnie. Chrissy made for a different story. “I should hope not.” When the moon came out from behind the clouds, it illuminated the area enough to make out the stranger’s bright blue eyes. A very aesthetically pleasing face. “Who are you?” “Call me Loki. You don’t recall our last meeting?” A mocking smile twisted the other man’s thin lips. Jordan’s eyes widened, and cold sweat slicked his body. Now he knew why the voice rang a bell. London. Loki threw back his head and laughed. Alarm slammed through Jordan. Retreat. Definitely retreat. Every vampire for himself. “Good night, Jordan.” The man flipped a small, metallic object into the air. Jordan saw a blinding flash just before sleep dragged him to the murky depths.

Chapter Seventeen From 100PercentHumansOnly.com -- On protecting yourself Each species is vulnerable to something. We recommend having appropriate weapons in your home at all time. Sooner or later these bastards will turn on us. Blood-Suckers: Wood neutralizes their abilities, but better get it through their heart; or you’ll just piss ‘em off. Mage-Born: Titanium seems to interfere somehow with their casting. Once you neutralize that, they’re sitting ducks. Shifters: Silver, tried and true.

“Stuffy Britches?” Chris yanked at Anthony’s arm, trying to stir him. “Jesus, what the fuck happened to you?” He stared blearily, not lucid yet, and blinked, his dark eyes unfocused. “Wha’? Why are you here? Didn’t you have a date tonight? Far away?” She scowled. She felt a little better after sharing her burden with someone else, but Anthony probably wouldn’t appreciate hearing the truth. “Donovan lit out on me right after curtain call. I changed flights to come down and see Connors. Didn’t know if you’d made it here yet.” He looked deathly pale, and springing the Aristocrat explosion probably wouldn’t have much impact until he could think straight. A car roared by, and he winced. Chris knew that look. He wore the same one every time she drank him under the table, most recently in ’73. She slid an arm around his waist and, ducking her head under his shoulder, hauled him up. “On your feet, big guy. What happened?” “You came looking for me?” Man, he wasn’t with it yet, not by a long shot, if he could ask that question. Then again, he hadn’t picked up that it was awfully

convenient that she found him, given she supposedly didn’t know he was in the state yet. Sometimes she needed to think through her mistruths a little better before telling them. Anthony licked his lips and swayed on his feet. Chris snorted and helped him to the car, where she deposited him on the passenger seat. He initially resisted, but gave up when his legs wobbled and threatened to buckle. Once she secured him, she flitted back to her rental, placed her panic permit in the windshield, and retrieved her things. Once installed in the driver’s seat, she buckled up. “Now, you got some ‘splainin’ to do.” Anthony groaned without protest over her driving, which said volumes about how lousy he felt, given he hated her driving. Geez, wreck one little Lamborghini, and you’d think the world ended. I bought him a new one; that should give me a little leeway. His dark eyes dull with some unknown emotion, he looked at her as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Can you find me something to drink, Christine? I’ll explain, if you give me a bit.” Because out in the boonies of Louisiana, blood banks existed on every corner. Not! She could flag down a car for a donation, but the Bureau strictly forbade solicitation without appropriate documentation. There weren’t that many cars on the road anyway. She gulped and held out her wrist in invitation. “I think you need this immediately, not in a few minutes. I got some shitty news for you.” He grunted, big hands dwarfing her more delicate bones as he took hold of her wrist. He didn’t drink. “Are you sure?” Their eyes met in the darkened car, and she couldn’t help a shudder. She’d gone through with this once already. How much worse would it be, actually sharing with Anthony? At least she knew it wasn’t Jordan being sneaky this time. She nodded. No time for squeamishness. “Just don’t, ugh. It’s like picturing my parents having sex, but yeah. Get it over with, so we can forget it happened.” He smiled apologetically, thumb brushing over her pulse. This moved them one step closer to acknowledging the truth they hid, her heritage. “Point taken. It won’t take long, and it certainly won’t hurt.” She wanted it to. “Yeah, well, I remember you paddling my backside when I tried to steal a horse from you when I was ten.

Excuse me for not jumping for joy at getting a cheap thrill from someone who changed my nappies.” He smiled faintly as she focused her thoughts, terrified if she didn’t push forward something specific, he’d find out about Jordan. Blood carried memories, and she didn’t know how to control what he saw. The only neutral thing that came to mind was the night Anthony had taught her to ride. His grip on her wrist tightened, and he accepted her offer without further delay. **** With both vampire and mage-born mixed in her, there were a hell of a lot of ways to get horny, she reflected. Between having power siphoned, exchanging blood, and now letting Anthony drink, she had spent far too much time recently longing for privacy. Hell, she’d take MacNaught in the bushes along side the road right then if she had to. Miserable, horny, and embarrassed about the combination, she saw Anthony stare out the window onto the road, trying to give her at least the illusion of privacy. He said, “Thank you.” “I’ve never meant anything more than this when I say, ‘don’t mention it’. Really, don’t you ever mention that to me again.” Unlike the exchange that turned out to be with Jordan where she got pissed off afterward, she felt incredibly awkward and revolted by the process with her friend. Almost like incest, blech! Chris rolled her shoulders, still trying to find some relief.She put the car in gear. “What caused you to faint?” “I tried something I’d never tried before.” He tugged at the neck of his Tampa Bay Rays shirt, a remnant of his trip to Tropicana Field with Dee earlier no doubt, before flying to Louisiana. “Tell me what news you have.” She blasted the horn twice and gunned the engine to zip into the path of a rushing semi. The engine redlined, and Anthony grabbed at the “oh-shit” handle. Easy peasy. “Heard from some friends in Brussels and Ankara. They’ve got fifteen bodies that turned up this morning. The problem is, they’re vampire victims. Not Aristocrat victims, but victims of vampire attacks. Note the difference, please.” He cocked his head to the side, puzzled. “The Aristocrats?” “It gets better. I’ve since heard from other friends, also in Brussels and Ankara, with other cities thrown in for good measure,

that there are dead vampires who weren’t killed by the Aristocrats. No claw marks.” Anthony’s eyes drifted shut, and his head rested against the headrest. For a moment, she thought he might have passed out again. Without opening his eyes, he sighed. “Continue.” “The vampires were found in very public locations with notes about ‘payback for unprovoked slaughter’. There are at least three blogs, popular ones, already gossiping about an impending war between vampires and shifters, with references to little squabbles going on elsewhere.” That didn’t begin to touch on the blog posts already showing up on anti-vampire blogs calling for an end to the “filthy undead monsters”. Damned, prejudiced humans. “Anything else?” “Ummm.” She didn’t want to tell him about Maya; she really didn’t. Why make him feel worse, knowing he couldn’t contain this any longer? “Christine, just come out with it, please? Obviously there’s more.” She winced and zipped around a car traveling at a snail’s pace (a mere seventy on the highway). “A reporter friend is putting together an article and wanted a quote from you. The news is already here in America. My laptop’s in the backseat, and I’ve bookmarked a website that surfaced a couple of hours ago.” “Do I want to know?” “Probably not. It’s supposedly from the Aristocrats themselves. I’ve got a friend looking into where it’s coming from.” Harlequin would sniff the responsible parties out if anyone could. One of these days, she needed to send him a basket of doggy treats. Such a good were-dog. His phone jangled in the cup holder. She stopped talking when he picked up. With vamp hearing, she heard both ends of the conversation. From the gist she caught, it was another member of the Circle, which Anthony probably didn’t want her to hear, but she had nowhere else to go. She tried to tune it out and even succeded for a bit. The man on the other end, a Spaniard or something named Raphael, paused when he heard a phone ring in the background. He answered in Spanish, which Christine didn’t speak, and then came

back on the line. “I know Jordan went to meet with our new member this afternoon and do the exchange.” She gulped. New member? That meant Raphael was Circle, given Jordan didn’t belong to the Council, and the Council didn’t do blood exchanges on a routine basis. Jordan was in Tampa. She knew that much, having run a trace on his phone earlier. Other than Anthony and Jordan, she was the ranking vampire in Florida. Most suicided out of boredom, or died from stupidity, before they turned two hundred. Who would they tap for the Circle? Age might be the primary qualifier, but they also looked at influence and skill sets. “Have you heard from him?” Oh crap, Raphael was still talking. “It’s unusual for us to sleep at night, and yet he does so now.” “I haven’t seen him since this afternoon, so no.” Anthony and Jordan in a room together? Good God, they’re both still alive. Miracles can still happen. The answer slapped her in the face, and she almost crushed the steering wheel before she forced her fingers loose. Only one person she knew of in the state had enough Circle-worthy influence. And Anthony would never let Jordan near her without being there with as protection. Damn, she hated secrets. Maybe she needed to start playing politics and finagle an invitation to the Circle. It might take a few centuries, but if she were right and Dee now belonged, that made it two people who’d go along. Maybe three if she asked Jordan. “I must go, Caldwell. Call if you hear anything.” Anthony disconnected the call and dropped the phone back into the holder. Without looking away from the road as she turned onto a main street for the little town, she said, “That sounded bad, dude.” “Have you seen the website?” Okay, he didn’t want to talk about it. Probably worried he’d revealed a member of the Circle, given her presence in the car while he talked to Raphael. So, she wouldn’t ask about Dee. She’d corner Dee in a day or two and ask. Remembering his question, she shook her head. “Yeah. Goes on and on about the Aristocrats Reborn. They swear death to those who oppose them and declare rotters will bow before their might.”

He grimaced and rubbed his forehead. “Charming.” “Sounds a hell of a lot like something Jordan’s crew would say.” That they went all out to make it look like the Bloody Baron had returned to his old ways went without saying. She debated the final piece of information and decided Anthony needed to know since he already knew about the website. “There’s more.” “Of course there’s more. Out with it.” “They included pictures of their victims. But only of their nonvampire victims.” His control slipped, and she heard at least four different languages’ worth of curses slip from him. Pretty impressive, considering he never cursed within earshot of a woman, even her. “The mage-born will go ballistic. The Aristocrats are destroying more than fifty years of peace.” “Still want to see Connors? You can always go back to Dee, and I can handle the fledgling.” Her stomach heaved at the notion, but maybe she could scare Brad into talking without torture. He wasn’t directly involved in the attacks, she suspected, just the theft. “She’s going to have a mess on her hands, trying to spin this, and you’re head of the Council.” He was head of a Council that had made serious efforts to conceal this from the public. Even though she didn’t venture to offer her opinion, the Council needed to do some serious damage control if they wanted to recover from not reporting the problem immediately. “No,” he finally said after a long pause. “I can’t. We need evidence to support our side of things, that we’re under attack, too. He’s our only link to proving someone took Achilles, opening the possibility that it’s being used against us.” “Right. Better give her a call to let her know what’s going on, if she doesn’t already know. I couldn’t reach her earlier, and I tried.” He sucked in a breath. Chris got a very bad feeling and peered at him as he said, “Ah, calling’s probably going to do no good right now.” “Why?” “Sarah’s dead.” Chris didn’t stop swearing about the antecedents of the Aristocrats until she pulled onto Brad Connors’s street. She felt better by the time she found his house, and a quick look in Anthony’s direction confirmed he looked better, too. Mage-born blood did that

for a person. He did, however, look cranky. He couldn’t reach Dee by phone. **** After handing over the ring she’d safe-guarded for the past forty years, in hopes that it might help him keep Dee from sinking into the depths over Sarah’s death, Chris flashed him a quick halfsmile and left the car. Anthony was right behind her. He paused at the same instant she did, the moment she smelled blood. Chris took off, Anthony right behind her. The front door was open just a crack, and, on top of the blood, a god-awful stink rode the air. From somewhere in the back of the house came cracking sounds and hideous snarling. He ducked ahead, stupid chivalrous nature she assumed, and together they crept through the house toward the presumed kitchen. A low, loud belch echoed through the otherwise silent hall, followed by more cracking. If she didn’t know better, she’d think a wild animal had gotten loose. Given her mental sweep picked up nothing, that meant a shifter of some sort lay ahead. A pretty danged stinky one. The fragrant nastiness wasn’t just death, but animal musk layered on top. Anthony touched her arm without looking back, establishing a connection since he didn’t have line of sight on her. “Keep quiet,” he said. Though he wouldn’t see it, she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at his back. “Um, can you say duh?” He eased the swinging door to the kitchen open and cringed. When she peeked around him, feeling a damned fool cowering behind a man like some shrinking violet bimbo who needed protection in a bad movie, she glimpsed a kitchen turned horror show. Blood splashed the walls, and in one corner, a half-shifted hyena gnawed on a hunk of flesh and bone. Ouch, sucked to be whoever it had been. Probably Connors. Hyenas will eat anything. Ewwwwww. The creature jerked, looked up with a curled lip revealing sharp teeth coated in gore. “Ooo, more vamps!” It popped a gooey eyeball into its mouth. Even at five feet distance, she heard the squish the orb made upon consumption. “Tasty treats abound.” With terrible purpose, it dropped the remains of its victim and faced them fully. It wasn’t pretty, naked half-man, half-beast.

Anthony gave an overdone, dramatic yawn. “Oh look, a hyena.” The creature dropped to all fours and bounded across the kitchen to slam into Anthony. Chris dodged out of the way of tangling bodies. She smelled the second creature and whipped to the side an instant before claws could embed themselves in her stomach. She didn’t need another blasted scar for her collection. The new hyena clenched a femur in its teeth. Anthony’s voice rang out in her head. “Get out, Christine.” “As if, dude,” she responded in the same manner and yanked out her knives. “Come and get me, fuzzy wuzzy.” Based on the repulsive, yet not-impressive, equipment she saw, the new creature was also male. He bared teeth at her and dropped his bone. She took a threatening step toward it. Show no fear. Anthony bellowed behind her, and fresh blood stench wafted through the air. Ancient vampire blood. The hyena before her yipped and lunged. She danced out of the way, dodged into the formal dining area as she slashed at its back with both weapons. Her titanium/mahogany weapon landed, ripped a small chunk of flesh from its dark, fur-covered flank. The wound began healing, albeit sluggishly. Stupid, useless weapon against a shifter, but she always carried both. Even if they couldn’t seriously harm these creatures, non-silver weapons worked great for distraction. “Bitch!” He spun to snap at her. Jaws closed on her arm. Just before the teeth clamped shut, she dissolved. Her weapons clattered to the ground along with her clothes. She’d fudge Anthony’s memory if she could, but only after she killed the shifter so it wouldn’t tattle. Such close-quarter fighting didn’t favor her. Chris shifted to her Siberian tiger body and scrambled for the back door. Glass crumbled under the impact, and tiny splinters tore at her hide despite the heavy fur. Away from any witnesses, including Anthony, she could get answers from the beastly creature. And then a few friendly alligators would dispose of the evidence. Thank God for swamp country. As she neared the swamp, she heard the hyena laboring to close the gap, having shifted to the full animal form as it gave chase. Chris slowed her pace to allow the creature to think it could catch her and braced for the inevitable tackle. Given her spell only added about

fifty pounds of bulk to her normal one-seventy, she judged them evenly matched. The man made a huge hyena. It pounced, its jaws trying to close around the thick neck of her tiger to snap her bones. Rearing up, she fell back to squash the creature, and then rolled back to her paws. It laughed, that creepy hyena cackle, and shook itself. And then he surprised her, blurring back to human form. With clothes on. What the hell? About to attack, she veered off and raced several feet away to gain perspective. She must be seeing things. Shaking her head, she looked again. A fully clothed, human man stood in the clearing where only seconds before a hyena had prowled. Shifters lost their clothes. Everyone knew that. Just like shifters aren’t telepaths, right? A deep wound bled right where her knife had hit. Her non-silver knife. The wound should already be healed. The man flexed his fingers. “Here, kitty, kitty. Come play.” He bared his fangs at her and leaped to close the gap. Wait a second, vamp fangs? The momentary confusion delayed a response to the impending attack, and he landed, claws ripping a strip off her hide. She twisted, yanked free and bounded off, claws digging into a tree to give her height. Muscles bunching, she leaped into the air, lithe cat body twisting sinuously to land on the man’s. Payback’s a bitch, and so am I, she thought, and raked her claws down his spine. Those wounds began to heal even as she jumped off. Her tail lashed as she circled him, still studying the wound from her weapon earlier. Either wood or titanium affects him like silver should. Good to know. With speed rarely seen in a shifter, he moved forward and yanked her off the ground. He still smelled like a pure hyena! Her vision blurred when he hurled her into the tree she’d used to propel upward. Chris slammed into the banyan with a resounding crack. The world spun dizzily about. Blinking to clear tears from her eyes, she struggled to stand as the man stalked toward her. Snarling again, she met him halfway and bit him in the leg, or at least tried to. He dissolved like a vampire before her jaws snapped shut. Her forward momentum didn’t let up, and she tripped, landing

muzzle first in the mucky mud. She dissolved out of instinct and not a moment too soon. A tree branch speared into the ground. The man paused. He was in his mid-thirties she guessed, with surprisingly pale skin. Most hyenas she knew were of African descent. He released his grip on the branch and looked up where she wafted. His eyes flashed red when he smiled, showing fangs that no shifter should have. They certainly hadn’t been there in the house when he jumped her. “Ares said you might show up,” he said, balancing on the balls of his feet. Given Pierce’s telepathy, she decided to take a chance this one might be able to hear her and touched his thoughts. “What are you?” He laughed. “You’ll die wondering.” She studied the stranger, taking advantage of the moment to regroup. About her height, his eyes slanted to give him a distinctly Asian appearance. Sleek muscles added to a compact, powerful frame. Her gaze fixed on the oozing wound on his thigh. It should be healed, not still bleeding. He didn’t react the same way to weapons as a shifter, and that matched the fangs. But what was with the hyena stink? A quick peek at his aura showed nothing but shifter, just like Pierce. She dropped to the ground into her human body, scooping up his discarded branch and swung it at him. Fine, he wanted to act like a vamp, she’d treat him like a vamp and stake his sorry ass. And then through the heart for good measure. Anthony wouldn’t kill the other hyena, so they could question him. Once she decided to kill without questioning, the fight didn’t last long. She delivered the coup de grace straight through the chest after circling him. He might have some of the traits of a vamp, which made no sense, but he couldn’t be very old. He was slow and weak compared to her, though fast for a shifter. Chris stood over the corpse, leaning hard on the branch embedded in his chest and glared down. Dark eyes turned blank in death. She knelt and swiped a curious finger through the corpse’s blood. Tasting it, she wrinkled her nose and spat it out. Shifter blood, which she hated. Yet with an odd aftertaste, she realized. Smacking her lips together, she braced herself and took another sample.

Ick. It didn’t taste any better the second time. The weird flavor lingered. Pity they hadn’t thought to take any of Pierce’s blood for comparison. She reached out for Jordan, wanting to share this particular bit of news. He’d licked Pierce’s blood off her fingers. Maybe he’d tasted something weird? Again she found only silence. It felt like he was asleep. What self-respecting vamp sleeps at night? “How in God’s name did Ares know I might come here?” She hadn’t slept since making the decision to come to Louisiana. Even Anthony hadn’t known her intent. Only Donovan. Ares wouldn’t have any reason to watch his dreams. Chris refused to consider the alternative despite the little voice in her head. He found the bodies here, too. Coincidence? “What the hell are you, you piece of slime?” Frustrated, she kicked the body. For some reason, it didn’t respond. Gathering herself, she reached out with her senses and found a sleepy group of alligators not far away, though they weren’t happy about the commotion. Connecting with the nearest pair, she used a strong mental summons to bring them in for a late-night snack. She climbed up into the cypress tree and watched the giant lizards with their meal to be certain they consumed everything. Once certain they’d finish the job, she took to the air to return to Anthony. Hopefully he’d still be in one piece.

Chapter Eighteen From Jordan MacNaught’s notes regarding blood-magi delivered to the Circle: What interests me, having hunted them as long as I have on your behalf, are their differences from regular members of the Blood. The typical blood-mage clings harder to their former life than does your standard convert. It may have something to do with the fact that, as forbidden members of our society, they need their former connections to combat the loneliness that comes with being an outcast from not only the people who birthed you, but who created you as well.

Chris found Anthony still in one piece, but he had killed his hyena, too. A scrawny man, no more than twenty, lay dead on the floor. Anthony looked thoroughly frustrated, spattered with blood and gore. Since the dead shifter looked to be in no better condition, it must have been a nasty fight. She reformed in the hallway where her clothes lay and got dressed silently. Anthony probably knew she’d returned, but hopefully wouldn’t walk in until she had pulled her clothes back on. She didn’t want to screw with his head too much. A new thought occurred to her on the flight back from the swamp, continuing to play into the problem of fangs on a shifter. It was the final night of the full moon. Shifters should be out boinking like, well, shifters. Not eating unsuspecting vamps. Once dressed, she slunk into the kitchen. “Little shit got away. He went full hyena and fled. Chased him a good five miles, but he went into the swamps. I could have probably tracked him, but I wanted to be sure you were okay.” She wasn’t sure whether her agreement to report to Jordan took precedence in this situation, so she wouldn’t say much more than that until she ran it by him. Given he was apparently sleeping in the

middle of the night like a human, she was stuck. She couldn’t help anyone if she died or writhed in agony from boils and the like. It wouldn’t be fun when she finally explained to Anthony about keeping secrets. Jordan better give the okay to tell all, once she convinced him she wasn’t insane. The Circle as a whole needed to know. Anthony shot her a withering look. “A hyena isn’t a threat to me, Christine.” That’s it? No “holy crap, Chris, it was a vampire that smelled like a hyena”? Keeping a solemn expression, she jabbed a finger into the deep cut on his thigh. “Oh no, of course not. I suppose that’s just a love bite? Got your rabies shot recently?” He smacked her hand away. “That’s revolting, woman.” She grinned and wiped his blood off onto her jeans. “Well, what do you want to do about this place? I think people might notice a smashed out side door, if they haven’t already. It’s almost dawn, and you’re going to be a sight, covered in blood, no matter how you slice it.” Before he answered, he turned over the chewed-on torso that doubled as hyena chow and scowled. “Have you seen his head? The mongrel was eating an eye when we came in, so the head has to be close at hand. Do you think this is Connors?” “Hrmph. Hyenas don’t eat heads, do they?” They aren’t supposed to have fangs either. Argh! Anthony doesn’t seem disturbed at all. Could the other have been a normal hyena? Once he turned his back, she took a sample taste of the creature. Bile rose in her throat at the musky, tangy flavor overpowered by hints of digested human. Plus the weird aftertaste. Ugh. “I didn’t see anything that indicated Connors had a live-in. No mention of a girlfriend, or even a boyfriend.” They searched together and finally found the disembodied head, discarded on top of a pile of clothes in the laundry room. The clothes had been dirty even before the severed head bled on them. She nodded when she recognized the face, even with the wide look of horror in its remaining eye. “That matches his license picture. I’d say someone wanted to make sure Brad didn’t talk to us. But why wait until now? Those creatures didn’t torture him or mutilate him. At

least not the way the other bodies have been. Could this just be a coincidence, that he died tonight?” She didn’t think so, and from his grunt, neither did Anthony. He said, “Maybe they wanted an additional body to stoke tempers here in America. After all, our kind is going to be outraged that shifters killed one of us. If there’s one victim, given the multitudes dying abroad, there’s probably more.” Anthony jammed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Straightening, he sighed. “We need to call the local Bureau office.” “Ya think?” Oh sure, now he wanted to bring the authorities in. After the hyena escaped the cage, so to speak. Heads would roll when the Bureau got involved, since everyone was legally required to report inter-species bickering. At least until tonight, it had all been abroad. The government wasn’t going to be happy when they found out the vamps had hidden bodies. Not her problem though. She gratefully left politics and public attention to others, like Anthony and Dee. Whistling softly, she again surveyed the damage. No way of covering up the battle and retreating without leaving evidence behind. Her fur still fluttered on the door where she had broken through. “You kinda made a mess, didn’t you?” Anthony didn’t argue, just picked up the phone to dial 9-1-1. **** Jordan floated on clouds of black, the smell of charred meat heavy in the air as he struggled back toward consciousness. Odd, very odd. His skin felt tight, sore. And then he snapped awake, staring up into the blue sky of morning, probably almost two hours past dawn. Athdara stood over him, a strange look on her face. He cursed and leapt up. The charred meat smell came from him. She jumped back. “Hell and damnation, little whore, were you just going to let me roast?” She shrugged, clearly unappreciative of his effort to keep her alive and free of murder charges the night before. “I considered it. How did I, er, we get out here?” Jordan shot her a dark glare and scrubbed at the dirt glimpsed on his pants. Great. Dirty, burned, and alone with her. Not an auspicious beginning to the day. “I need shelter. Now.” He glanced around, but the only place to hide from the sun in the vicinity was her house. So be it. He shifted into his land-based

alternate form, an Anatolian leopard, and loped toward the house. The fur gave him at least the illusion of protection from the sun, but if he didn’t get inside in the next five minutes or so, he’d be dead, fur or no. The house looked abandoned, yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossing the doors. He hopped through a gap in the tape. The back door gaped off its hinges, thanks to the brawl with Athdara. He retook his human form once in the kitchen and poked at a blistered patch of skin. More injuries, more healing. The past few days hadn’t treated him well. A quick sniff revealed no lingering blood spore, so Bureau agents must have used air purifiers. Why hadn’t they found the two of them back in the woods? They hadn’t been that far from the house, and the battle had surely left tracks. More importantly, why hadn’t Loki finished the job? Twice now, he’d been left alive by the Aristocrats. Why? Just because they were setting him up as the fall-guy for the new murders? Why the bloody hell would I want to piss off the entire world? It makes no sense. He wandered through the hall to reach the entryway, staying clear of the sunlit patches. Athdara stood just past the door, looking around at the mess, utterly lost until she caught sight of the runes. Then she just stared. Irritated by her distraction, he coughed. “Where do you keep your supplies, Athdara? You look like something a cat might refuse to drag in, and I feel like an overdone side of beef.” She blinked, lost in whatever misery consumed her, and his temper bubbled. He almost combusted because she didn’t wake him; he had stopped her from killing the human cow; and he had finagled her invitation to the sodding Circle. Why couldn’t she stay in the here and now? “If you don’t drink something, you might sink into another rage, and I won’t refrain from killing you next time.” He meant every word of that statement, too. It stirred her into motion, and she waved the way he came. “Kitchen. Go straight; take a left. Fridge.” “Your Bureau is quite efficient,” he called, turning away. Better than the London Home Office in fact, which housed Britain’s version of the Bureau. “They didn’t straighten up our mess, but they got in and out quickly enough with the old woman. Be careful what

you touch. Law enforcement types tend to be a bit grouchy when crime scenes are tampered with. We shouldn’t be here, should we?” She grunted and trailed in his wake, stumbling as she passed the den where her relative had passed. Her breath hitched in her throat. Please, God above, don’t let her cry. He didn’t need a weeping woman. Not grief tears at least. Fear, panic – those tears he liked. “I need to call the Bureau,” she said softly, still zombie-like. “Emily’s going to want to talk to me about what I saw in Sarah’s head.” He blinked, startled at even temporarily forgetting that detail. She’d possibly seen the murderers. “Right now, you and I are the only ones who know you saw anything. Was there something of use?” Jordan pulled open the fridge. The cretin Loki must know she’d seen something, but left her alive. Left both of them alive. Until he got a better idea of what the end-game might be, he’d wait and watch. No need to trouble the Circle with little details for now. As he straightened, blood in hand, he glimpsed her setting something down on the table. The light from outside caught it. An arrowhead? Once again, he couldn’t bring to mind Loki’s face. That annoyed him. They shouldn’t be able to cheat like that, wiping memories. If he could manage that trick, he could have a lot of fun. But no, that remained the exclusive purview of a true dream-walker. Chrissy would be able to manage it when he showed her how. Leftover bangers and mash under plastic wrap rested next to a neat row of bags from the local blood bank. Most humans he knew would be a bit squeamish about such an arrangement. “Your niece must have been an interesting woman. She didn’t complain about blood in the refrigerator?” “Don’t talk about her, Jordan. You know nothing about us.” And he had no interest in learning more. So much for polite conversation. “What did she show you, in those last minutes?” As she thought, he retrieved two bags and tossed one in her direction. She caught the bag, almost dropped it before setting the packet aside to retrieve a glass, with something approximating proper manners. Then again, the woman hailed from the proper side of the pond, no matter her social standing. Of course she grasped the proprieties. He took a glass as well, and when she didn’t seem inclined to do anything with hers, sighed and filled both, shoving one

into her limp hands. Standing near, he got a better look at the arrowhead. Given her dazed state, he risked being caught long enough to look at it with his other sight. It gleamed amber. Probably whatever Loki had used to render him unconscious. Now to nick it and study it. Unless one was exceedingly careful, magic left metaphysical finger prints, and if he could figure out who had enchanted the arrowhead, he might be one step closer to finding Loki and Ares. Given Loki used a pre-made spell, Jordan doubted he was a blood-mage. “Jordan, you are awake my friend!” He twitched, startled by Raphael’s sudden entry into his thoughts. “Yes. A bit of a mess here with our new member. Are you on the way to the States yet?” “I haven’t had a chance to leave Cliffshead yet. We have a problem.” Jordan sipped from his glass, eyeing the silent woman across the kitchen as she did likewise, and listened to Raphael’s report about the mounting body count. Not good. Not good at all. “From what a friend in the States just emailed me, the American Bureau is looking for you.” He choked, coughing before blood went down the wrong way, and slapped his glass on the counter. “I beg your pardon?” After all he did to try to stop this? The news didn’t come as a total surprise. He’d expected as much all along, but that didn’t make him feel better. So much for gratitude from the ghastly Americans. “They call you a ‘person of interest’. No charges have been raised, but they know you’re in Florida.” Botheration. He had already made an appointment to speak with Emily Carstairs, the chief investigator. But now he’d been named, and the media probably knew, or would know shortly. Stock prices in Celtic would plummet if they filed charges against him. “Oh my God, Vinnie.” Athdara whimpered. That name rang a bell. Townsend had mentioned him, and Chrissy had recognized the name. He crossed the kitchen and caught her arm. “I need clean clothes, Athdara, and then we have to go. Tell me who Vinnie is on the way.” She blinked, stared owlishly at him. “Excuse me?” Letting go, he scooped up his glass and drained it. Didn’t Anthony talk to his child? “There are a lot of bodies lying about, and

I’m wanted for questioning.” Ironic that she could provide him with a partial alibi. “I didn’t do a bloody thing. There can be no evidence pinning anything on me, and I’m the one under scrutiny. Raphael just contacted me. He’s been trying for hours, but my mobile’s at the Imperial.” About to turn, she froze. “Questioning? You’re a suspect?” Why are women, this one in particular, so stupid? Except for Chrissy, they lacked something upstairs. “I knew I would be, sooner or later, if things got out. Woman, it just got rather nasty for all of us.” He fetched a second bag, dumped it in his glass and waved her ahead. “The old man sleeps here doesn’t he? I can’t very well waltz back to my hotel right now, and I refuse to step foot outside looking like I do.” “Why do you ask? Anthony didn’t do anything.” What he wouldn’t give to be able to put an end to her. He nearly roasted alive, but she was in a daze? “Doesn’t he talk to you? Apparently, while we slept in the forest back there, hundreds of bodies showed up. Some are more Aristocrat victims, while the rest look like strikes and counter-strikes by every race in response.” She still appeared quite lost. Shaking her probably wouldn’t do any good, so he spoke very slowly. “With my old associations, the authorities are wondering about my possible involvement. Keeping my name out of it became impossible as soon as we failed to dispose of a body before the authorities got to it. Too many people know who I am and what I’ve done in the past.” “Maudite merde!” she breathed and looked around for something, abruptly energized. Thank the heavens for small favors, he thought. “I have to call. They’re going to be looking for me, too. I, I almost killed someone last night. We can make arrangements for you to come in.” Such a good, law-abiding citizen. Ugh. Fortunately, he had a much better plan in mind. Someone needed to keep atop important matters. “Who is Vinnie? Don’t get distracted before you tell me who Vinnie is. You saw something in Sarah’s last moments, didn’t you?” Athdara nodded and gestured for him to follow. He pocketed the arrowhead as she turned away to lead him back to the front hall and up the stairs. “I saw at least three of the Aristocrats. We need to

tell Emily. I know who one is, and I suspect the rest are all friends of Vinnie’s, though I didn’t recognize them from when, ah, I knew him.” They mounted the steps, and she stopped at the top with a frown. “One of them was with Tina Besler, one of the other Tampa victims, at A’Jin’Cor just before her death. I recognized the face.” “Really?” Very good, Athdara could be useful. Just like a pet monkey. Mr. Tate’s club kept coming up. Succoring mage-born who broke the laws of the land about using their gifts without permission, the proprietor first on the scene to find dead bodies, and now all the victims, save the old woman, had patronized the club with their killers? Someone needed to look into that. “Why bother this investigator then? If you know Vinnie, we’ll pay a call on him ourselves and see what he can tell us.” “I can’t do that.” She tugged on the sloppy rope braid of hair she’d pulled over her shoulder. “I have a responsibility to—” “First and foremost, you have a responsibility to the Circle,” he said, cutting her off. “The Aristocrats have gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look like we’re the villains here. Do you understand that war is breaking out, that people are blaming us, the Circle itself in the end, for these deaths? Is Vinnie a vampire?” “No, shifter.” Athdara frowned and paused by a closed door. She tapped the surface. “Bathroom’s second on your left; clothes are in this room. They’ll be too big for you, but Sarah didn’t keep any of Zach’s things, so Anthony’s clothes are all I have.” It beat a woman’s bathrobe, he supposed. Jordan caught her bad arm, and she flinched. “Swear you’re not going to bring the Bureau in. These bastards are blackening my reputation, and I’ll not tolerate it any longer if we’ve got a lead on them. The humans have no place in Circle business, nor in mine. For better or worse, you’re part of the Circle now. Act like it.” She yanked back and shuddered at the pain he’d deliberately sent radiating down her arm. “Don’t touch me.” He rolled his eyes but took an exaggerated step back. Sometimes his reputation could be a disadvantage. If she’d just died when he tried to kill her, she wouldn’t have to worry about being touched. Some day Anthony would disappear, and he could finally remove the redheaded thorn in his side. Something about her had always dragged out the “monster” in him, and he’d never been able to

decipher why. She was only human, at least until her conversion, right? When he spoke, it was with as much sincerity as he could muster. “If I wanted you dead at present, I had ample opportunity last night. Far easier to kill you than keep you alive. While I want you dead, you’re not worth my life. I didn’t bring you into the Circle just to kill you immediately after. Perhaps, after the old man tires of you, as we both know he will, you and I can go somewhere quiet and settle accounts between us. Right now, though, let’s deal with this current problem, shall we?” A range of emotions flitted across her face; but finally anger and hatred at something other than him gelled, and she nodded. Lifting her chin, she marched toward another room down the hall. “I won’t make any calls. Get changed, Jordan.” He watched her disappear into her bedroom, and allowed a satisfied laugh. Maybe he might get some entertainment out of this. Miss Innocent had never killed, and right now she had a perfect motive. Perhaps he could use that to his advantage, spoil some of what Anthony liked so very much in her. That pleasant thought in mind, he pushed into a sparsely furnished room and reached for Christine’s thoughts. She might know what was going on. **** Chris leaned against the wall in the small living room that the Bureau had directed her and Anthony to remain in. Her shoulders slumped, and she closed her eyes. In the end, she had wiped Anthony’s memory of the second hyena entirely. It took four tries to make it work, one right after the other. The effort left her drained. It might not have been so bad, but for feeding him earlier as well. From her position, she saw the lead investigator, Agent Banner, talking to one of his underlings. Anthony prowled the edges of the den, restless and cranky. He wanted to get back to Florida and Dee. “Chrissy?” Jordan’s voice came through, surprisingly tentative. With an effort, she reached back through their bond to respond. Blood-bond connections took a lot of energy to use for talking. “We gotta talk, but can’t right now. Where have you been, MacNaught?”

She rested her head back against the wall. His presence in their link increased as he took up a significant portion of the focus required to hold the connection stable. A little of the strain faded. “It’s complicated. Where are you?” “Louisiana. I found the thief. Anthony and I confronted him.” “Ah.” “I know you don’t believe me that Pierce was a telepath, but I got something even weirder on my hands now. Too complicated to go into this way. Cell won’t work because you never know who might listen in.” “I don’t have access to mine anyway,” he said. “When will you return to Florida?” She dashed away sweat from her upper lip. Even with his support, what little strength she had was fast draining away. “Later today. Have to finish with the Bureau. They’re not letting us leave yet.” “I’m wanted for questioning.” That didn’t shock her. “It was bound to happen. I’ll be back in Florida by tonight. I assume you’re not going to Miami now?” “So it would seem.” “We can meet up tonight then.” “Agreed. By the by, how was New York?” And there was nice, considerate Jordan. One of these days she’d get used to him, to the private side of him. It was growing on her. They hadn’t wasted time on chit-chat when she’d told him about the Aristocrat outbreak. “It was New York, big, bustling and a shopper’s paradise.” No harm admitting that much, given he understood about her shopping. “Where do you want to meet?” “I will let you know. I’ll be paying a visit on Mr. Benjamin shortly with Athdara. It seems he was one of the ones who killed her Sarah.” Now that was interesting. So, Pierce fingered Vinnie, and now they had proof Vinnie was mixed up in the Aristocrats. “Don’t suppose you tasted some of Pierce’s blood, did you?” The world tilted around her at a sickening angle, and she locked her knees to avoid toppling over at the continued strain. She gulped hard, but saw no way around admitting the problem. “Jordan, gotta cut this short. I’m about to fall over. Tell me tonight when we catch up.”

His thoughts brushed hers in a kind of concerned caress. “See you tonight, Chrissy.” The brief conversation reminded her of Pierce’s gun, last seen in her office, and the bag of blood in her fridge. She hadn’t located any leads on the blood, but when she got home, she’d send a couple of the bullets off to have the goo analyzed. It couldn’t have been healthy for a vamp, given the confidence the weapon had given Pierce. “Christine?” Anthony’s soft inquiry and gentle touch on her shoulder snapped her eyes open. “Huh, what? What’d I miss?” “Nothing. Just making sure you were awake. How much longer do you think this will take?” She shrugged. “Bureau moves at its own pace.” The big guy looked so miserable that she forced her body away from the wall. Vertigo dragged at her, but she kept moving and the world quickly righted itself. “Let me go find out. They can’t keep us here for much longer unless they’re going to press charges. We didn’t do anything wrong.” Anthony hadn’t, at least. Thanks to Brad’s death, Mr. White Knight kept his armor spotless. Meanwhile, the tarnish on hers just kept growing. Chris reached Agent Banner and cleared her throat. She’d get Stuffy Britches out, one way or another, even if it meant she had to cheat to do it. Hopefully the agent would be easier to charm with her gifts than Anthony was.

Chapter Nineteen By one-thirty, Chris was at the airport, half asleep with her laptop plugged into a convenient outlet for charging. What a rip-off, paying to charge a device. When her phone rang, she almost let it go to voice mail but recognized Anthony’s number. She’d gotten him out of the house hours before she managed her own escape. He must have got a good tailwind for the flight back to Tampa, she thought, and hit “talk”. “Yo, what up? Back in the Sunshine State yet?” “Getting ready to land, actually. Have they sent you on your way yet?” “Yeah.” In hopes of lifting her own flagging spirits, along with the depression she sensed in him, she didn’t tell him the absolute truth. “I’m in the midst of returning your car.” Predictably, he panicked. “Oh, please don’t.” She grinned and closed her eyes as she rested her head against the wall to her left. So easy to get a rise out of him. “One car, Stuffy Britches. How many times do you think I get into accidents?” He actually whimpered. “Three of mine. 1954, 1982, and then the Lamborghini. You never wreck your own vehicles.” Well, of course not. She didn’t buy insane little sports cars. “Bah, who remembers these things? So, heard from Dee again? I assume you’re not calling to check in on me. You don’t care that much.” “Not generally, no.” That hurt, even though she had prompted the response. She always cared about him, even risking arrest to get him back to Florida by putting the whammy on Banner, and he didn’t appreciate her efforts. Then again, she had also whammied him, so he didn’t remember her efforts on his behalf. Still, after all she did on the Aristocrat issue, he might give a rat’s ass. “I haven’t heard from her in a few hours.” The last time Anthony called, he had told her that Dee was now off with Jordan. Chris couldn’t find it in her to feel sorry for the pain in Vinnie’s future. Hopefully Vinnie was just a normal lion, not a vampire lion. She couldn’t even gather the strength to warn Jordan. A pint of blood kept her conscious, but couldn’t do more than that until

she slept. She sincerely hoped to catch a few winks on the plane ride home. “Geez, sorry. I’m sure she’s fine.” Probably not, given the death of her last living relative, but what else could she say? “Who’s the best person to talk to regarding mage-born bloodlines?” Chris straightened and held the phone closer to her ear. She glanced guiltily about the airport terminal. There weren’t that many people around, but still she didn’t want to blab something. “Why ask me? You really think I track that sort of thing?” She didn’t. “Christine, I’m not in the mood, and I need to speak with an expert about mage-born bloodlines.” Anthony didn’t sound in the mood for banter. He must be totally tweaked over Dee running off with Jordan. “Geez, chill out. Fine. If you want an expert, call Ronnie, Dee’s assistant at the Bureau. If she doesn’t know who or what you’re looking for, her father sure will.” “Ronnie? Veronica Mansfield?” “Yeah. She’s Maurice DuBois’s daughter. I’m sure you know who he is.” One of the niceties that the Aristocrat war threatened to overturn was the chance for all the species to get along. Ronnie was mage-born, but she loved working for a vamp, despite, or perhaps because of, her father’s opposition. He headed of the North American Council of Mages and seemed to think all Ronnie should do, even in the twenty-first century, was stay home and have babies. The man could be a total dick and had issues with the Blood, as was made evident each legislative session when the mage-born members of Congress tried to pass some new form of laws to limit vampire civil rights. “Dee told me Daddy-Dearest tried to talk her out of hiring Ronnie back in the day and got nasty when she hired her anyway. You might remember him filing a complaint.” Anthony grunted. “Anyway, Ronnie does some pretty heavy-duty genealogy in her spare time. You need her number?” “No, I have it. Get back to Florida. I need your help.” “I don’t work for you, Stuffy Britches.” No, I work for your enemy, she thought bitterly. And he appreciates me more than you do.

The fact that she might on some level be looking forward to seeing Jordan in a few hours troubled her enormously. She felt incredibly disloyal to Anthony and Dee, given the complex and violent history the three shared, and was still questioning her own sanity on the issue. Of course Anthony didn’t know any of that that and expected her to blithely jump when he called. When this was all over, she was going far, far away and never agreeing to help anyone again. He always took her for granted. How sick that the only one who didn’t automatically expect her to roll over for them was Jordan? He said thank you from time to time and seemed inclined to butter her up. I need that psychiatrist now. “Come to Florida,” Anthony said with feeling. “Athdara isn’t talking to me at the moment, and if she won’t let me comfort her about Sarah, she’ll let you.” Not like Chris didn’t have to go back anyway. “Right, right. I was headed that way anyway. I already called Verissa, and she’s coming back, too. We remember when Sarah’s mother died.” “Hurry. I need you here.” “Be there when I can. Not all of us own planes.” Without even a “thank you”, Anthony hung up. Chris stuck her phone back in her carry-on and closed her eyes again. Sometimes, in the darkest place in her mind, she hated him. Loved him dearly, because despite his gruff exterior he was a big teddy bear, but hated him, too, because he was such a stuffed shirt, stick in the mud, jackass. **** Slouched against the wall in Vincent Benjamin’s bedroom, Jordan watched with more than a little boredom the tableau playing out before him. Not once had Athdara blanched at torturing her ex. The lion was on his last roar, as the saying went. The young man had peed his pants when he woke up to see the pair of them. About time one of these pissants paid him the respect he was due. “Fuck you, MacKechnie.” She laughed, with more than a hint of resemblance to the giggle he used in his own playtime. Interesting, that. Did she realize she mimicked what she’d seen in those days he’d held her? Probably not consciously, at least right now. He pushed away from the wall and ambled back, circling. Vinnie watched him through one puffy eye, the other closed up.

“Oh, that’s not very nice. As I recall, I wouldn’t screw you when I didn’t know you were a homicidal human-killer.” Athdara bit him, just above the tight silver collar around his throat. If the lion tried to change, bound the way he was, he’d lose his hands and, tragically, his head. “Why would I do that now? I’m just trying to help you, you know. If I get up and walk away, the Bloody Baron over there will come back to play with you some more.” Vinnie shuddered. “I don’t know anything.” Mr. Benjamin wasn’t nearly so brave as the ill-fated Pierce Townsend. And yet, he didn’t break either. What was with these odd Aristocrats, that they were able and willing to withstand such pain? What end game could be worth so much? “Naughty, naughty, Vinnie boy. I don’t like being lied to. Don’t forget, I saw you slice my Sarah’s belly open.” She reached down and squeezed the lion’s balls, drawing out an agonized scream. To silence the scream, she kissed him. Not quite what he would have done, but on the whole, effective. In the back of his thoughts, a quiet sensor pinged. Jordan might not be a full-fledged dream walker, but his awareness of the dream passage always lingered. He’d taken the time and effort to create Christine’s door, and the alarm indicated she’d just fallen asleep. If he thought Athdara could muddle through for a few minutes, he’d try to get into Chrissy’s dreams. It should be easier than with most, given the double connection of blood-bond and tangled talents. He still wanted to know what she’d discovered in Louisiana. And the notion of a telepathic shifter was bugging him. He needed a few days to fly back to Cliffshead and do some research. Surely somewhere in his records he could find something on the topic. Something about his mother, perhaps. One of her many lectures as a child, about his responsibilities as her eldest son and heir. Chrissy had never seen Cliffshead either. Angel wouldn’t have appreciated him bringing other women back to the keep for anything other than torture and murder. “Dara, please. They’ll kill me if I talk.” Ah, weakening, are you? Alert to subtle changes in phrasing, he stepped forward to yank the man’s head back, just shy of cracking the vertebrae. “You’re going to die no matter what you decide, lion. You have two choices as to how it happens. Have no fear of what

your friends will do. You’ll not walk out of this house again. I can kill you, and you will curse your mother for whelping you. Alternatively, you can take the coward’s way out and talk to Athdara before I get bored and play with you again. I know which option I want. Please, continue to waste my time. I want another crack at you.” Outside then, a vehicle slowed briefly in front of the house and then picked up speed. Athdara glanced at him, and he nodded at the unspoken question. He sensed the old man’s presence, too. Blast. So much for having any fun. Athdara might go along with this; he might enjoy himself to some degree, but Anthony would put an end to all of it. The best he could do was buy them a few minutes more. Vinnie seemed unlikely to talk, probably because he didn’t know much. “Stay with the lion, Athdara. I’ll go distract the old man. He can’t make this stop at the good part, right before Vincent spills his guts. After he talks, naturally.” Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room. He met Anthony halfway down the stairs. The Viking stopped upon sighting him. “Damn you, Jordan.” “Your fledgling is actually surprisingly adept at torture, old man.” He smiled pleasantly. “Let’s let her do what she will. Vincent might well tell us something of use.” “At what cost?” Jordan cracked his neck and shrugged. “None. Why shouldn’t he talk?” Anthony’s dark eyes glittered angrily, and he shoved Jordan back. “To her.” “I’m sorry, was I supposed to care?” Jordan stood his ground, debated whether or not to try magic, and decided it probably wouldn’t go well for him. It might be something to experiment with, touching Chrissy when he cast a spell on a vampire. It should increase the spell’s potency and likelihood of success. “If you go in there now, you’ll just muck it up.” Anthony paused, and Jordan saw brief indecision. The damnable white knight warred with the pragmatic head of the Circle, Predictably, the white knight won, and Anthony slid past to finish his ascent.

Jordan trotted back up the stairs and looked into the room, a step behind Anthony. Athdara looked pleased with herself, and talons replaced her fingers. He smiled, recognizing the intent to kill. Before she got the chance, Anthony took one step and hurled a silver knife. Where the deuce did you come up with that? The old man never carried weapons. The knife hit squarely in the were-lion’s right eye. “No!” Athdara whirled to confront both men. “He was mine, you bastard!” So much for her first kill. Pity. Jordan squeezed between the door and the older vampire, making for the corpse. “I’m impressed, Caldwell. I would have bet on your striking Athdara, not the animal. Practice much?” “Not recently.” As he reached the body, Jordan blinked. That was his dagger. How the devil did Caldwell take it without my noticing? When did he learn to pick pockets so well? Athdara yanked the weapon free, dripping blood, ocular fluid and bits of brain matter onto the plastic that covered the floor. Drip, drip, drip. Nice sound, that. “Blood for blood, Anthony. How dare you take him from me?” “Quite easily. I know you’re angry about Sarah, but murder won’t bring her back.” Jordan rolled his eyes before studying the body with a scowl. He didn’t know the area very well, but they needed a disposal method. The angsty duo would snivel for hours if he let them, and someone needed to cover their tracks. She hissed and fingered the blade in her hands. “It wasn’t murder. It was justice!” Why did people always fall back on the idea of justice? Vampires were killers, all of them. Their very nature demanded it, yet most clung to remnants of their “humanity”. “And if it’s murder, why you? Vengeance was my responsibility for what they did.” Hearing the indrawn breath, he turned in time to see her rear back to throw the knife, presumably at Anthony. He snatched it away. “I don’t think so, little girl. I’ve heard about your abominable aim,

and it’s going to be trouble enough to conceal our work here without repairing the drywall.” He swiped the blade along Vincent’s clothes to remove the muck. Pain exploded as a blow landed in his kidney region, and he yelped. “Damn you both!” Furious, he turned just in time to see Anthony yank her away. Meeting the old man’s gaze, he said, “She needs to leave now. I won’t cater to her temper tantrums.” Anthony pulled her toward the door, ignoring the caterwauling woman. “Will there be any trace of this?” He shook his head. “I’m adept at leaving no evidence. Even the amateur there couldn’t make such a mess of things it wouldn’t be cleanable.” Jordan glowered at the redhead, back still aching from her strike. One day, you little bitch. He won’t be around, and Chrissy will be otherwise distracted. Pressing his lips together to contain his growl, Jordan turned back to Vincent and untwisted the wire at the man’s wrists. Anthony shut the door as he urged Athdara out. Jordan paused as the wire fell away, revealing shredded skin beneath. What the devil? He leaned forward, running experienced fingers over the flesh. Silver should leave burns of some sort after prolonged contact with a shifter’s body. He saw cuts, but no burns. It looked more like a normal person, a non-shifter, had been bound. “Odd.” When he pulled Vincent off the chair, the man’s head flopped back lifelessly before the body collapsed onto the sheet. Unlocking the collar, he studied the throat. Again, no burns, not even cuts from the metal. Athdara knew the creature to be a shifter. But he didn’t look like a shifter should post-silver contact. “But if you aren’t harmed, why not change, escape?” He tapped the collar against his hand, thinking. “Shifters don’t dissolve like we can. A collar would squeeze you until your head popped like a pimple.” An odd fragrance, not associated with death, registered. Brow furrowing, he peered at the collar where blood dribbled onto it. That didn’t smell right. Shifter, yes. But something else. Subtle, like one might smell a difference in fine wine. Curious, he tasted the blood. Definitely shifter blood on the surface, with a musky bouquet. But

with a definitely aged quality. One he would associate with a senior shifter, one in their sixties, seventies, or even older. And deucedly familiar somehow. Had he sampled a lion recently? Jordan didn’t think so, but something about Vincent’s blood bothered him. Chrissy might have a theory or two on the topic. He drew back from the lion, startled at the notion of consulting with a woman. She might be working with, and for, him, but to actually ask her advice? What a novel concept. Filing away a mental note to check on Vincent’s lineage, check for a dhampire ancestor that might cause slower aging, Jordan brushed blood from his hands and opened the door to get Anthony. The couple stood near the top of the stairs. “I’ll need several hours to handle things here, with the old man’s help. MacKechnie, get out. The sun’s no longer at its zenith, so you don’t need a vehicle to leave, unlike either of us.” He couldn’t leave until at least six, and Anthony needed at least a half hour past that, given the two-century age difference. “Call your Bureau. You’re going to tell them about Mr. Benjamin’s involvement in your human’s death.” She nodded, and Anthony let her go, dark eyes wary and big body tense, on the alert if she tried to attack again. Wiping away unshed tears, Athdara cleared her throat. “The neighbors would have seen your car, Anthony. They saw me, or at least I know the woman across the street did. Are you going to remove her memory, or do I need to be able to explain why I came by?” Rather than let Anthony linger on the question, Jordan answered. “Tell the Bureau you saw your niece’s memories before she died and the Circle instructed you to pay a call on Mr. Benjamin. It’s not an outright lie, since I did tell you to come here. That should get you past any lie-detection spells they cast while speaking to you. Just take a page of out Caldwell’s book and volunteer nothing.” Athdara nodded and slunk down the steps as Anthony said, “I’ll be a thought away if you need me.” “I’m going to be ill.” Jordan muttered the statement just loud enough for Anthony to hear and turned toward the bedroom. Damned, love-smitten Viking. “If you’re through drooling over that woman, kindly focus on the here and now.”

A quiet cough came from the foot of the stairs. “Before he died, Vinnie told me who the others were. At least those who killed Sarah. He didn’t know any other groups of Aristocrats personally.” Sensing Anthony about to tell her it could wait, Jordan ducked in front. “Who? You’ll obviously have to give the Bureau this information, but if we get a head start, perhaps we can extract information from these others before the Bureau mucks it all up.” Her hair slithered around her shoulders when she nodded. “Three others. They operate in quads apparently. Only one person in each quad knows the names of anyone outside their individual unit. George St. Yves, Martin Vega, and Neal Miller. St. Yves is supposed to be their point of contact with the larger collective. If you know where to find Chris, she’s good at finding people quickly. I can’t access the Bureau’s database right now. I’m no good to the Circle if I get fired. I’m better staying out of that side of things for the moment.” “Thank you, love. Head out. I’ll find you after we’re done here.” “Well done, Athdara,” Jordan said. After dealing with Townsend, he hadn’t expected to get even that much out of Vinnie. He wondered what she’d said to finally break the man, but now wasn’t the time to ask. He needed to get rid of the body, and just as she was good at her job, he was very good at his. **** The thought of driving two hours after being cooped up on the plane didn’t sit well. Chris hadn’t been able to sleep at all on the crowded flight because every time she closed her eyes and the blackness settled in around her, with barriers pressing in on her from three sides, she kept flashing on that damned tiny box. Nor had the piddly drinks she bought done more than make her even antsier to get off the plane. She tossed her suitcase onto the passenger seat of her truck and climbed in. She didn’t give a damn if she ruined her laptop. Flying into Fort Myers rather than Tampa to get her truck had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that Jordan was demanding she get her ass up to Tampa with renewed urgency, she wasn’t so sure. He wouldn’t shut up, constantly nudging the barrier she’d rebuilt to keep him out. Her phone rang for the third time since she had turned it back on. She knew who it was and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She hit the

talk button. “Dude, I’m in Florida. Give me a couple of hours to get up there.” “Can you multi-task?” Anthony sounded distracted, and from the sounds of it, actually using the speaker function on his phone. Plastic crackled in the background. “Yeah, what of it? I’m not kidding when I say I just got off the plane.” “I need you to track down a few individuals for us. They should be in the vicinity.” “It’s not hard to do that for yourself. It might not even be on the gray side of the legal/illegal fence.” “I’m a bit busy at the moment.” Muffled curses followed a loud thump. “So am I. Jesus, Anthony, I’ve been on the run for the past several days, thanks to you and Señor Psycho. It’s been a shitty week, mostly thanks to him. You’re ‘a bit busy’?” “Oh good, she argues with you as much as she does with me. Here I thought she just didn’t like me.” She recognized Jordan’s dry voice over the loudspeaker and groaned. She needed to come up with a better nickname for him. Nothing less insulting came to mind. “Chrissy, just do what you’re told. The old man has his hands full here. Athdara is otherwise occupied.” “It’s a freakin’ Google-search, guys.” Jordan and Anthony alone in a room together, apparently moving furniture based on the thuds and squeaks she heard. A world gone mad. “So it won’t take much time.” Anthony sounded harassed. She totally got that, having spent time with Jordan recently. “You’re good at getting these things for me.” “Yeah, I know.” She fired up her truck to start the radio and yanked open her carry-on. “Fine, whatever. Want me to call you back or just tell you where they are when I get there?” “We can wait on the line,” Jordan said. “Fuck off, MacNaught. I wasn’t talking to you.” “Language, Christine,” Anthony said, reminiscent of a father reprimanding a child. That does it! He never thanked her, never showed the slightest hint of appreciation, just snapped and expected her to roll over like a trained hound dog. He didn’t even express common courtesy and

made her hide who she was, even from him. Damn it, was it too much to ask to get to be herself? Good God, why was Jordan the only one who encouraged it? “You know something, screw you, Anthony. Maybe I’ll run the search. Maybe I won’t. I’m sick of you right now. Text me the names, and if I get around to it before I see Dee, I’ll get you the information.” Cutting the line, she tossed the phone to the floor and slammed her palms against the steering wheel. Do this, do that. Damn him for being an asshole, and damn me for getting involved. I quit.

Chapter Twenty Christine headed for her small ranch where she housed her babies. The house was tiny, only one bedroom and a miniscule bathroom, but she didn’t live there. The point was the stable. Many years ago, she’d housed thirteen prized horses, but now Jester and Marcus were the only ones remaining, the last of the lines raised by her parents. She hopped out of her truck and breathed in the sweet smell of hay and horse. Much better for calming down than drugs or even alcohol. Anthony kept trying to call, and Jordan kept knocking on the barrier. She ignored them both. If she looked at her phone and saw Anthony’s number, she’d go to the beach and throw the device in the water. Inside the barn, Jester whinnied a greeting, snuffling expectantly when she patted him on the nose. He stood seventeen hands hall, with a midnight black coat and reddish mane. She stroked Marcus, a chestnut stallion, and retrieved sugar cubes for both her boys. “At least you two just want to run and play. No getting pissy with me.” Marcus shook his black mane over his red neck and whickered. Jester stomped a hoof on the solid floor of his stall. Her phone beeped with an incoming text, the sixth since the airport. Her head fell back, and she stared at the ceiling in disgust. They could have looked up the information themselves for all the effort they’d put into reaching her. Reluctantly, she scooped up the phone to check messages, more because she was afraid the curse might give her a case of the boils if she didn’t, than any desire to find out what they wanted. All the texts came from Anthony’s number, but the last message didn’t have his initials at the end. Chrissy, you’re being childish. I need your help. Pick up when I call. Please. JM The “please” got her. Chris sighed and waited, talking nonsense to the horses until her phone rang. She didn’t let her barriers down, unwilling to risk exhausting herself even more. While she hadn’t slept on the plane, at least she felt a little better for having just stayed down for a bit. “What do you want?”

“The old man’s traipsing down to the Bureau right now. He left me his mobile since I might need to contact my own sources, and he could communicate with me in other ways.” “He doesn’t know you’re calling?” “Learning of our amenable relationship would just confuse him.” Jordan sounded calm, rational, perhaps even a bit soothing. “Well, spit it out.” If he mentioned one word about the binding curse and bet, she really would drive down to Fort Myers Beach and hurl her phone into the water. “How quickly can you get here? We want to find the Aristocrats before the Bureau does, and Anthony believes it best to go after them all at once, rather than individually.” “Two hours, minimum.” She sighed. Of course she was going to help. It’s what she did, even if she thought continuing to meddle now that the Bureau was heavily involved was idiotic. “I can be there before sunset.” “Excellent. You will pay a call on a man named Neal Miller. Supposedly, he is a were-bear.” Her eyebrows lifted at “supposedly.” “Lions and tigers and bears. Oh my!” “Droll.” He sounded like he even meant it. Damn, she hated phones. You couldn’t get a read on a person if you couldn’t see face or body. “What do you mean ‘supposedly’? Did something about Vinnie seem odd?” She didn’t want to flat out ask about fangs. She barely believed it, even after seeing them on the hyena. “Possibly. You might know this, as I haven’t had a chance to look into the matter. How old was Mr. Benjamin?” She licked her lips, anticipation sending her nerves into overdrive. Oh yeah, he knows something. “Mid-twenties.” “Very strange.” “I can go stranger. Are you familiar with the expression ‘if it walks, talks, and quacks like a duck, it’s a duck’?” “Naturally.” “I thought someone I met last night was a duck, too, right up until the duck tried to bite me, if you get my drift. We should talk about what I found in Louisiana. In person. Anthony needs to know, but I’ll tell you first.”

“We shall see. I’m forwarding Mr. Miller’s information to you. See if he’s home, and we’ll talk later.” **** Jordan landed on a palm tree outside the apartment complex that housed George St. Yves just after sunset that evening. He didn’t take his human form since one never knew who might be watching or where security cameras lay. They hadn’t been able to get to their targets quickly enough to avoid the risk of running into the Bureau, so in the face of Anthony’s distraction with Athdara, he’d made the decision to simply observe as the Bureau went knocking. Once the Bureau arrested St. Yves and he coordinated with Chrissy, he would turn himself in. It shouldn’t take too long to clear the whole mess up. The ugly law enforcement sedans pulled into the parking lot outside the building. He shifted to his mist form to remain unseen in the gathering twilight as he moved closer. The agent who seemed in charge wore a name-tag that proclaimed her “Carstairs”. He studied the heretofore unknown Emily Carstairs with some interest. He could break her like a twig, even if she was an elemental mage. She reached the door first, hand resting lightly on her weapon. Jordan hovered overhead, translucent enough to be invisible at that hour. “Bart, any movement?” she asked into her headset. It squawked. “Negative, ma’am. Next door neighbor says St. Yves hasn’t left the apartment all day, not since getting home from his shift around seven.” Carstairs nodded and knocked on the door. “Georges St. Yves? This is Special Agent Emily Carstairs, Bureau of Non-Human Affairs. Please open the door.” He saw no reason to wait for the law if it might develop into a stand-off. He drifted around to a side window and seeped inside. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he smelled violent death. Humming silently, he wafted through the apartment until he found the man’s torso propped up on the toilet, the lower half slung into the bathtub and an arm propped against the mirror, discarded there after serving a final use. A message smeared in blood covered the mirror.

This is the price paid by those who disobey. Loki of the Aristocrats. Jordan studied the dismembered corpse for another minute. The pasty-white skin, along with puncture marks below the jugular, meant Loki had drained the man before he died. Given Georges was mage-born, it would further ignite tempers. What a mess. He giggled. The noise echoed softly around his insubstantial form. So much chaos, so much fun. Theft of his legacy aside, he admired the talent of this Ares chap. He couldn’t do better himself, if he wanted upheaval. Agent Carstairs pounded on the door again and called out, “Mr. St. Yves, either open the door, or I will break it down. I have a warrant allowing us to search the premises.” Taking care to disturb nothing, Jordan shifted to his normal body and took a quick taste of the blood from the man’s shoulder. Foul did not begin to describe the flavor of congealed blood, twelve hours or more old. If not for fear of leaving evidence of his presence, he would spit it out. God’s blood, nasty tasting stuff. He returned to his mist form to drift outside once more. Once clear of the complex, he returned to his eagle form and swooped upward. “St. Yves is dead, old man. Someone calling himself Loki paid a call some hours ago. I daresay it’s the same Loki who visited me in London.” No need to upset the man with mention of Loki’s presence near his precious Athdara’s home. “Damn it,” Anthony said, including the image of teeth grinding together. “Are you sure?” “Quite sure. It’s rather difficult to live when the top half of one’s body is separated from the lower half.” He pictured the old man turning red at the deliberate misunderstanding. “I meant—” “I know what you meant. I can’t be certain, but yes. I do believe it to be the same person.” Bloody dream-walker, eliminating his memory of Loki’s face. He couldn’t think of another explanation. It just heightened his need to get Chrissy to block off his dreams the way she did hers. That should keep Ares out. “Damn. Christine just reported in on Miller, and he’s dead, too. Body’s in the same condition as St. Yves.” Jordan’s snarl came out as a screech. Loki, or mayhap Ares, clearly knew they knew who the local Aristocrats were and were eliminating the security risk.

“We need to regroup. Christine is joining me for a brief conference before I deal with Athdara for the next few days. If you can maintain a civil attitude, I would like you to join us.” “I’m not the one who hung up on us earlier, old man.” He’d be civilized all right. Right up until he had Chrissy to himself for a few days with no interruptions. “If you believe she will be useful, so be it. I’ll be civil as long as she is. She’s not the one who took a stake to the—” “I’m aware of where she staked you, Jordan. I think she should have cut it off, personally, but there you have it.” Quite a statement from a man who rarely let anything ruffle his calm demeanor. “You’re unusually blunt these days.” “These are unusual times. I’ll see you when you arrive. Behave.” That single word burned more than the now-set sun did at noon. Jordan wheeled about and concentrated to get his bearings before winging toward Anthony’s location. **** Chris parked in the lot outside Ronnie Mansfield’s gated community’s pool and playground. Dee was holed up with Ronnie, and she’d check in after this pow-wow. Miller’s ripped-apart corpse had creeped her out. Why kill in such brutal fashion? Dee might be able to identify the quad, but to turn on one’s allies like that? These Aristocrats made no sense. She climbed the fence into the play area and mounted the steps on the metal structure leading to a twisty slide. Something like this would be a lot of fun to a kid, she mused. Heck, if she were about two feet shorter, she’d go down the slide. Totally fun. The tower that encompassed the mouth of the slide gave her a great view of the surrounding neighborhood. A block away, she saw Anthony stride toward the park, recognizable by his size. Thanks to her enhanced senses, she made out his face as he passed under the street lamp. “I should have told you to go fuck yourself, Stuffy Britches.” Not on the Council, not in the Circle, she could slide under the radar. Now, though, she didn’t have a lot of choice on staying involved. No one had forced her to sign the deal with Jordan. “His own party, and the old man’s late,” said Jordan from behind her.

She started, yelping as she spun around. She almost smacked into him, as he was less than a foot away. Damn it, why didn’t she keep her senses open? With their blood-bond, he couldn’t sneak up on her any more if she paid attention. “Stop doing that!” He grinned and caught her up against him for a swift kiss. Chris leaned into him, returning the kiss before she remembered Anthony’s impending arrival and pushed him away. Jordan didn’t protest, just leaned back against the railing. “Stop reacting, as I told you before.” Heat suffused her body, remembering what happened after that. “Once Anthony’s gone, we’ll discuss that, um, duck, as you put it. It seems I may have come across one or two other ‘ducks’.” Chris nodded, momentary lust evaporating in the wake of duck talk. Anthony would never forgive her for staying quiet this long. Then again, he wasn’t likely to forgive her screwing MacNaught either. Dressed in a black leather jacket, black jeans and t-shirt, Jordan looked relaxed but sexy. He rocked the casual look, probably because he so rarely wore it. Silence ruled the little cupola until Anthony mounted the steps to join them. “Our immediate problem is damage control,” he said without preamble. “Athdara is in no condition to speak on our behalf, and won’t be for several days I suspect. Per her assistant, the Bureau’s allowing her bereavement leave.” “These deaths could work in our favor, Anthony,” Jordan said. “How so?” Anthony saved her the trouble of asking. She turned her back on the two men. “We have Athdara’s insight into the old woman’s last thoughts, identifying those who killed her. None of them were vampires, yet they attacked in the Aristocrat style. Loki, in turn, killed and drained them, indicating he is a vampire, and left a note saying that indicates they, and he, are all members of the Aristocrats.” “Which says what?” “I would never sanction lesser creatures in the Aristocrats. It certainly points to the possibility that I’m uninvolved. Who would believe I would tolerate an imitator from within our own ranks? I may appear to walk the straight and narrow these days, but we all know I’m not nearly so pristine.”

“Mm, that might take some of the heat off us, if you’re cleared,” Anthony said. “Good point. That may help us soothe ruffled feathers, fur, and fangs in the short-term.” Chris shook her head. “It won’t help much. Dee’s testimony won’t hold up in court.” Holding up her hand, she ticked off points. “She isn’t Bureau-certified in memory retrieval. She’s too close emotionally and personally to Sarah. The telepathic examination took place during the death throes. I’m stunned a judge signed off on warrants to bring those guys in.” Jordan moved restlessly behind her, drumming the railing. “Have you heard about the fourth yet, Anthony? Did he turn up dead like the others?” Anthony joined her at the railing and privately asked, “Are you going to talk to me?” “Nope. Got nothing to say.” Aloud, he sighed. “As yet, nothing. From what I heard, Vega ran. They found signs of a speedy departure. Of course when they paid a call on Vincent, he had vanished as well.” Again privately, he pressed, “Why are you angry? Everything seemed okay in Louisiana, and then when you came back, you exploded.” She didn’t have an answer for that. It was unfair taking her guilty conscience out on Anthony. He might be a jerk sometimes, but he also tended to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders; and she needed to cut him some slack. “It’ll blow over, Stuffy Britches. I’ll do what you need me to.” “I’m your friend, Christine. Friends talk.” “Given the heated feelings out there at the moment, I’m uneasy about presenting myself to discuss the matter with Ms. Carstairs. They need a scapegoat. Given my less than stellar past reputation, I’m the logical target.” Jordan’s comment dragged her attention from the private conversation, and she turned around. “You should be in the clear for the Tampa victims, at least based on travel records.” She knew he’d still been in London when the Tampa victims died, thanks to her earlier search. “I don’t do criminal law, mind you, but there’s documentation you weren’t in America, so hopefully they won’t come after you for that. You could still be a suspect for planning the attacks, unfortunately. What about last night? Where were you, and can anyone vouch for you?”

Anthony and Jordan exchanged a look. She stifled a scream. More secrets, and they probably centered on Dee. Blast them all to hell. How could she help if they didn’t share little details? Did she need to declare them clients and invoke attorney/client confidentiality? “At the approximate time the miscreants assaulted Mrs. Hensley, I was in my hotel room, alone. I had, however, just greeted the room service attendant when he brought me an additional pint of blood. I didn’t do this.” “The three of us know that. It’s not what we know. It’s what we can prove. And like you said, there’s a witch, or Blood, hunt in the offing.” Chrissy pulled out her phone and opened the browser to the new Aristocrat website. “They’re going out of their way to make it look like the Blood’s responsible. The only person we’ve got linking everything is Loki, given his presence in the attack on you and his murder of the shifters and mage-born here. Problem there is you’re the only one who’s seen him, and your word is suspect. He’s a vamp, yeah?” “I have no doubt.” “Loki doesn’t lead the Aristocrats,” Anthony said, drawing her attention. “I think he may be the face the quads know, but he’s not their leader.” She bit her tongue to keep from automatically agreeing. It made sense that Ares might be the leader. Pierce named him; the hyena named him. So she grabbed an alternate question. “What makes you say that?” “Because I believe a dream-walker lies at the heart of everything.” Chris heard Jordan’s indrawn breath. She stared up at Anthony, fumbling to stick her phone back in her back pocket. “Why do you say that? Mind, like I warned you earlier, I don’t pay attention to mage-born talents, but no one talks about dream-walkers anymore.” “On the way from Louisiana, I fell asleep. In a dream, I saw a man wearing my brother’s face. He called himself Ares. Most of the dream doesn’t matter, other than I had it.” “Chrissy, hold off telling him quite yet.” Aloud, Jordan said, “If you’re right, then we were off-base in believing there’s a traitor. A dream-walker can get in and out of our subconscious without leaving a trace.”

Chris didn’t intend to mention Ares, with or without Jordan’s comment. Since the men made her come to this meeting, they’d damn well listen to her. “The dream-walker isn’t your biggest problem. As Anthony said a few days ago, if word got out before you guys eliminated the Aristocrats, the Council and Circle would be humiliated Well, guess what boys, the word’s out. “Loki is the one most will associate with these attacks, not Ares, even if by some miracle the Bureau believes Anthony about his dream. Loki attacked Jordan, who miraculously survives to tell the tale, the only survivor to date. Anyone else think this is a little suspicious, if you don’t know he’s not involved this time around? Loki attacked and killed Sarah’s killers, using the style of the Aristocrats. Loki is a vamp. Joe Public will turn on us. It’s going to be a lot worse than it should be, because you guys kept it quiet.” Next to her, Anthony’s shoulders slumped. He nodded. “We need a scapegoat.” The answer looked clear. That didn’t mean she liked it, and much less that she was the one to say it. Jordan sniffed. “You’ll not pin this all on me.” “Don’t be an idiot. You need to stand around, look contrite as you try to make amends for your wicked past by helping in the current crisis. You have to be horrified at what’s being perpetrated. Dee would say the Circle has to do some major ass-kissing.” “Someone needs to fall on the sword, or stake, as the case may be,” Anthony said. “Claim mea culpa, and then get out of the way while everything clears up.” She glanced over at Jordan and saw the gleam in his eyes. He saw where she was going, and he naturally agreed, given his Anthony issues. She plunged ahead. “Not just anyone. Someone everyone recognizes.” “Me.” She might be peeved with the big guy, but making the suggestion hurt. His quiet acceptance nearly derailed her. After however long trying to eliminate the stereotypical vampire image of “evil undead monsters” (a la Jordan), he would take the fall for a mistake in judgment. The phrase, “It’s good to be the king” didn’t always hold true. “A pretty speech won’t work. You’re great at those, but without something major, the non-vamps won’t listen.” “You want me to stand down from the Council.”

“Own up to being on the Circle, and claim to leave it, too. The Circle’s responsible for keeping this situation quiet, and if people don’t know that already, they will soon.” **** Jordan held still as she made the suggestion he never could have without sounding self-serving. She had no way of knowing he stood next in line. In the dim light, he watched indecision and uncertainty flit over Anthony’s face. He knew what her suggestion meant. How beautiful, his foe laid low, and by his best friend no less. “I won’t live a lie. If I say I’m stepping down, I will.” Anthony clenched the railing and through their blood-bond, Jordan felt his despair, reveled in it. This had all the markings of a glorious day. “It may mean my death. Circle membership is for life.” Under the circumstances, Jordan would be generous. “You’re doing the noble thing. I’ll support your petition to leave unharmed, and you know my opinion of you. It’s enough, for now, seeing you humiliated.” “Jordan, you prick, shut up. I know you’re incapable of compassion, but, really, you’re gonna rag on him now?” As if sensing Chrissy’s silent rebuke, Anthony reached out and patted her hand. “This whole situation started because I believed keeping quiet to be in our best interests. Others wanted to come forward and only reluctantly abided by my decision.” She looked between them, finally realizing something more was afoot than just his defeat. “Why are you so agreeable, MacNaught?” “Oh, do let me tell her, won’t you?” Exhilaration thrummed through his veins. Finally, more than a century after the former leader’s death, he might get what he’d expected to then. If Andre hadn’t pulled rank and placed Anthony on the Circle, it would have happened. Anthony’s words rang out like Westminster’s bells. “Because, if I step down, Jordan takes control.” **** Chris clutched Anthony’s arm so she didn’t topple over. No wonder Jordan looked so pleased. “You’re kidding.”

Anthony shook his head, his hand curling over hers. “No. He’s next in line.” The Antarctic wouldn’t be far enough to run and stay safe if Jordan came into that much power. He might be likable, and all that, but he was still the sociopath. She counted ten so she didn’t pop off and say something particularly rash. Why hadn’t she thought about that, maybe found some way of asking stood next in line, before making her suggestion? Sick, she said, “I, I’d like to withdraw my recommendation at this time.” “That’s not very nice, Chrissy.” Even in the pale streetlight, she caught Jordan’s smirk. “You only voiced what I’ve been thinking for days, Christine. No worries.” Anthony didn’t sound unhappy, just resigned. “We will consider the option seriously.” She wanted to escape now before she did any more damage to the cause of innocent vampires everywhere. Let the Circle-types finish arguing over their plan of attack. “Well, ah, we done? I’ve done what you wanted, and it sounds like you two have some decisions to make.” “Nothing needs to be decided right now. Thank you for your assistance tonight, and for everything else.” He said “thank you”. Wow. Anthony disengaged and headed for the stairs. Chris died a little inside, watching him go. Even hearing him say “thank you” for something didn’t make her feel better. “I’m going to check on Athdara. I’ll speak with leaders from the Council, and the rest of the Circle, tonight. If we do nothing, this will escalate until everyone’s got their stakes and torches at our throats.” Great, here came the guilt. Anthony had never looked so disheartened as he did trudging down the steps to the parking lot below right then. Chris ran a hand through her hair and watched him go. Only as he cleared the edge of the parking lot did she remember she was going the same place. She headed for the stairs. “Forgetting something, Chrissy?” Jordan looked entirely too pleased with himself. “We still need to talk about water fowl.”

“Now?” She cringed and stopped, foot in midair above the first step. “Right now. Unless you’d rather discuss page five with me. I’d prefer to remove to a different locale for that conversation, but if you wish, we can remain here.” Her shoulders hunched. So he was still peeved about that, was he? She was definitely better off remaining somewhere he couldn’t do much damage. With a gusty sigh, she plopped onto the step. “Anthony tell you what we found in Louisiana? A hyena, which he had to kill.” “He mentioned it. No mention of one trying to bite you, though.” She grimly filled him in on the toothy hyena. When Jordan asked again about Vinnie’s age, she rubbed her chin. “I s’pose he might be older than twenty-five or so. I’ll check what’s available on him, and the others. Might be a little more difficult, given the Bureau’s gonna look at Circle searches with a great deal more suspicion.” “What about that useful spell you used to get the information from SRI? Could you alter it to ferret out what we want to know?” “Meh.” She waggled her hand in the air. A great idea, but she didn’t know how to put it into practice. With SRI’s search, she knew what to look for. The answer didn’t seem clear cut with this search. “Probably, but not sure how. The search would need to be a lot more precise, and the Bureau probably uses magic to protect itself. I’ve got another search running right now anyway.” “Oh?” “Something odd with SRI.” She’d checked her search’s progress before leaving the ranch house and been baffled by the results. “Someone’s uploading documents to their servers. And damn it all, but it looks like whoever’s responsible is using magic and technology to do it, something along the lines of the spell I came up with to get into SRI in the first place. If I weren’t using magic to find the information, I would never have looked twice at the documents. They look like they are supposed to be there. I haven’t figured out how to take a look without setting off an alarm somehow.” “Ares, perhaps? You didn’t know he was around before last week, but he knew about you thanks to the old man and myself. He

could have gotten into your head, stolen the idea. I’m sure that spell wasn’t something you came up with on the fly.” Chris nodded glumly. The seeking spell had taken months of experimentation, research, and planning. She hated shooting blind. Whoever had invaded SRI couldn’t have good intentions. Jordan edged toward the steps. She scrambled back to her feet rather than let him come up and tower. No sense taking chances. He noticed the movement and rolled his eyes. “Shall we relocate to your residence and do some checking then?” “I gotta see Dee. And you need to deal with the Bureau.” He winced and stuck his hands into his jacket pockets. “They want a scapegoat. I don’t know if I want to take the chance that they’ll pick me for the role.” “Mm. What does your attorney say about that?” “My what?” “Uhh, barrister? Solicitor?” He shot her a dirty look. “I know what an attorney is, but why do I need one? I’m not officially wanted for anything.” She slapped her forehead. The innocence of the uninitiated. Way too many people were incarcerated because they didn’t bother with counsel. “Don’t be an idiot. I’ll make a couple phone calls, make arrangements for someone to go in with you. It’d be stupid to go without representation of some kind.” “You won’t suffice? And I’m flattered you care enough to help.” “A, over your twice-dead body. I’m not going on record as having anything to do with you. B, I don’t practice, and if I did, I know corporate law. You need a criminal attorney. C, I’ve got other plans for tonight.” She didn’t touch the second part of his statement. It took all her years of experience dealing with him to keep her expression neutral because, when she took a moment to think about it, she realized she did care.

Chapter Twenty-One From The Species: Legal Definitions and Explanations, Foreword: Despite recent challenges to standing laws, in its 2006 decision the U.S. Supreme Court once again upheld its recognition of only five species of citizens: human, shifter (all subspecies), mage-born (all subspecies), dhampire, and vampire.

In the end, Chris arranged for Jordan to speak with Emily and then went to spend the night with Dee. They had moved to a hotel from Ronnie’s townhouse since the Bureau wouldn’t let Dee go home. There, the younger vampire drank herself unconscious with five bottles of whiskey, leaving Chris with time on her hands to do some research on the corpses and continue trying to find some sort of information about telepathic shifters with fangs. That didn’t hold her interest for long. She needed to know what Dee had seen. Chris took a long pull from the last bottle of whiskey and snuck into the bedroom. Settling on the floor next to the bed, she took the woman’s pale hand in hers and swallowed. She closed her eyes and tried to calm her thoughts, let go of all doubts and stress. Relaxation helped open up the dream corridor. She struggled to do it at the best of times, when at home with candles and her focus, a bronze sculpture she affectionately called Charlie. She might not have Charlie, but she had Jordan’s sapphire necklace. Rather than wear it, as it would look wrong with her jeans and turtleneck tank top, she wrapped the chain around her wrist. “Stay asleep.” She opened her mind’s eye and brought the dream passage up. **** Jordan landed on the balcony outside the suite he sensed Athdara and Chrissy in. Sliding the glass door open, he stepped in. Nice enough, though not up to the standards of the Imperial. Dark blue carpet lined the floor, and there was gold brocade trim on the otherwise white walls. Some vague cinnamon and clove smell wafted

from a lit tea candle resting in the center of the tiny breakfast table. No doubt Chrissy’s addition. The open laptop next to the candle drew his attention, and he paused in the midst of stripping off his jacket. He could have chosen a better outfit when he stopped by his hotel with Athdara, but it seemed better to don casual clothes when he knew he would spend time cleaning. The t-shirt he wore left his arms bare and showed the burn scars along his left bicep, hence the election of a jacket despite the late-summer heat. From the links with both women, he could tell Athdara was asleep. That Chrissy wasn’t out here carping at him was a surprise. He didn’t think she’d let him anywhere near the little whore. He leaned over the back of a chair and opened the most recent document. It consisted of a list of shifters they’d encountered, followed by George St. Yves’s name. Notes regarding parentage with links to PDF screen-shots from the Bureau’s database. Something bothered him as he studied the records, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Resting a knee on the chair for better balance, he opened the next document, titled “Guardians”. He was grateful for the position because he sagged and almost fell over at reading her full title. Guardians of the Phase. What the devil was Chrissy doing, investigating the Guardians? They’d been defunct since before his birth, as he recalled, forgotten even then by all but his mother and a handful of other now-extinct houses. The only pieces of physical evidence of their existence were his knife and the medallion he’d converted to a focus long ago. Curiosity piqued but with no way to soothe it without talking to Chrissy, he tossed his jacket onto the back of the couch, turned and carefully opened the door leading to both women. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he noted his efforts at silence were wasted. The alcohol stench almost knocked him on his arse. What, did Athdara try to drown herself in the stuff? Chrissy drank, but she never stank of it. Chrissy sat on the floor next to the bed. A sparkle, born out of dim light trickling into the bedroom, brought his attention to the gems curled around her wrist. He stepped in and knelt next to her. She needed to work on maintaining her awareness of the real world; otherwise, dreamwalking carried too high a risk. Properly trained, she could carry on a

normal conversation and visit someone’s dreams. Such took a great deal of practice. Sweat beaded her forehead, and he made out pallor. The hand holding the necklace trembled. Strain from being in the dream passage? Perhaps. If that were the case, he could fix the problem. He cast one last, long look at the motionless redhead, but to his surprise, the oft-fantasized image of her dead didn’t surface. Disconcerting, to say the least. Jordan settled on the floor and took Chrissy’s hand in his. Almost immediately, the sunken look to her cheeks eased, and he nodded. He’d take care of her struggles with the dream world with a few lessons and a great deal of practice on her part. **** Chris watched the black and white reality play out before her mind’s eye. Four men, Vinnie, Georges, Neal, and the missing man, Martin Vega. Once she found the last’s image, she froze the memory for better study. Near thirty, pock-marked cheeks and pitiless mien. That surprised her. How often did bad guys actually look like bad guys? Pulling out of the memory submerged in Dee’s subconscious, she brought up the exit onto her dream corridor. Best to get out before she exhausted her strength, though she didn’t feel drained as she normally did. Once in the plain, white hall, she glanced down toward the end where gray mist loomed. If she allowed the corridor to expand, hundreds or even thousands of doorways could appear. Her first several times in her corridor, she’d had no control over what doors popped in. She let the passage close, fade slowly into nothing. Only after the very last trace of white vanished did she open her eyes into the real world. That’s when she became away of someone holding her hand, the one with the necklace in it. In the pale light that slipped in from the cracked open door, she made out Jordan sitting next to her. Adrenaline flooded her body at having the two of them in the same room together, one utterly helpless while boozed up to high heaven. She released Dee’s hand and reached for the knife in her boot before the absurdity hit her. If he had wanted to attack, he could have done it before she cleared the passage.

He inclined his head toward the door leading into the main room of the suite. “Finished?” Belatedly extricating her hand from his, she nodded. Chris hopped to her feet and crammed the necklace into her back pocket. He pushed up and ambled out of the bedroom. She followed, carefully closing the door after them. No sooner did the latch snick into place than he yanked her close and kissed her. Her back banged against the door at the same moment she squeaked in surprise. His hand tangled in her hair and allowed no retreat, not that there was any to be found, caught between the solid wood door and his equally solid and aroused body as he leaned into her. For one brief, very brief, moment, she returned the kiss, their tongues twining. Then she remembered herself and punched him in his side. This wasn’t the time or the place, no matter how incredibly turned on she was. It was all the magic’s fault. The grip on her hair vanished with his grunt just before he trapped her hands against the door in his. Only then did his lips leave hers. “Knock it off, MacNaught! What the hell are you doing here?” Blood pounded in her veins as she tried to extricate herself, but his grip remained unbreakable. The hard ridge of his arousal pressed against her. Down, girl. Focus. Sarah’s dead, and we have bigger problems. Sex is not the answer, no matter the question. The sharp silent rebuke didn’t help. At least she could currently blame the arousal that sent her nipples jutting against his chest on the recent joint magic. “Shhh, we don’t want to wake Athdara, now do we?” Jordan kissed her cheek, grip tightening around her wrists where he surely felt her racing pulse before he shoved off. She wasn’t sorry about that. She really wasn’t. Okay, maybe she was. Chris swallowed hard and rubbed her bare arms, disturbed by the fact that magic, and Jordan, had such an effect on her. Maybe if she’d had gifts when mortal, knowingly indulged in a few romps with a mage-born man, she might be able to better deal with the currents that ran between the two of them. She always kept her magic leashed, but Jordan didn’t any longer.

With remarkable aplomb, he sauntered over to the couch and plopped down, propping his feet up on the coffee table. “Given the pungent aroma in there, waking her might take an act of the Almighty.” She eyed him warily and edged away from the door. He seemed in good spirits. Keeping her voice down, she repeated, “What are you doing here?” “I’m finished with the Bureau for the moment. Ms. Carstairs is competent at her job, and I’ve agreed to return in the wee hours of the morning for a memory scan. Which, by the by, you will accompany me for.” “Not a chance.” “Are you going to make me pull rank, Chrissy? I can, you know. Now, more than ever.” He spread his arms along the back of the couch and grinned up at her. “The old man is stepping down. He accepts full responsibility for what happened.” “Leaving you in charge.” Dread seeped like molasses through her body, weighing her down until she collapsed at the small table next to the balcony door. How stupid could she be, making the suggestion that Anthony retire? “No wonder you’re in a good mood.” “Quite. Did you learn anything useful just now?” A dark curtain of hair fell over her face when she shook her head. “I just wanted to see Sarah’s death, see if the shifters had fangs. Dee might not have noticed under the circumstances. How long were you with us?” He glanced at his watch, shrugged. She absolutely did not notice the way the movement stretched his shirt material taut across his shoulders. Tragically, the material held, though it clung lovingly to his muscles. Her mouth watered. “About half an hour, I believe.” That explained why the dream passage had snapped to life the way it did. She’d been struggling to get in, and then suddenly everything had opened flawlessly. His presence also explained why she wasn’t as drained as she’d expected to be. “Back to my visit with Ms. Carstairs. You will join me because I can’t do what needs be done without your assistance.” “And what’s that?” She pulled her laptop close and woke the system up. The document with her notes about the shifters was open, along with her notes about the Guardians, even though she

remembered closing the former down before going to Dee. Apparently someone thought he had the right to rifle through her files. “I agreed to a memory scan. You know the risks involved in that. If we’re not incredibly careful, they might uncover secrets we don’t want them to.” “Like the fact that you’re a homicidal maniac? Yeah, I can see the concern there. The Immunity Act only covers you to the ‘50s. Pierce’s death will count. Not to mention everything else that I don’t know about.” “Who’s to say I’ve done anything at all underhanded?” He flashed one of his most innocent smiles. The little flutters set in motion by his kiss moments ago further flurried with the expression. Familiarity should breed contempt, but what ran through her loins wasn’t contempt. Especially when she clearly pictured jumping him as he stretched out like that. She could have him naked in about five seconds, ten if she took care not to tear any clothes. Hell, he was a blood-mage; maybe he could shift like she did and just shed everything in a flash. She gripped her laptop and tried to focus. “You’re as innocent as Jeffrey Dahmer. That doesn’t explain my part in your visit.” If she went to the Bureau, Anthony and Dee might catch wind of it. “I’m more concerned with our secret coming to light. Kindly note the ‘our’ in that statement. If they learn what I am, they’ll learn what you are as well.” “The blood-mage thing.” “Yes.” She studied her earlier notes on the Aristocrats for distraction. All of them listed deceased parents. “I can try to make certain those facts don’t come to light, but given the unsteady nature of my gifts, it will be much easier with you along.” Chris frowned, looking through each of the separate entries to see what information she gathered. How did she miss that the first time? All orphans, and none with pack or house allegiances. It wasn’t entirely unheard of, but for the information to be missing on all of the Aristocrats, mage-born and shifter alike? “Are you listening to me?” She wasn’t. Some distant region of her mind registered he was still talking, but she focused on the screen before her instead. Georges

listed deceased parents, too, Madeline and Montgomery St. Yves. Those names rang a bell. Why? In hope of getting Jordan to cease his yammering, she finally answered. “Yeah, whatever.” “So you’ll go to the Bureau with me in the morning?” “Will you stop talking if I say yes?” “I might.” “Fine, yes. Now shut the hell up so I can think for a minute.” The silence that followed was deafening. Montgomery St. Yves. I know that name. And then the answer flashed. Her photographic memory paid off from time to time. “That ‘54 charity dinner in ‘Frisco that the Society put together to benefit some displaced dhampires. Georges’s father was on the guest list.” “So?” “Get past the gross taste of his blood, which I still say is hideously disgusting given it sat out for twelve hours.” His grimace indicated agreement. “If you hadn’t seen his face, how old would you say he was?” “At least in his sixties.” She jiggled her foot, lust fading as she zeroed in on the point. “Did he taste old enough to be the Montgomery St. Yves I remember from ’54?” “Having never met—” She banged the table to cut him off. “Did he taste that old?” Jordan scratched his head, a hint of revulsion still on his pretty features. He nodded slowly. “I do believe he did. Vincent did.” She shook her head and pulled up the FGCU library website. The college had never deactivated her student ID and password after she graduated a few years earlier. “There’s gotta be a picture of Montgomery somewhere.” “What are you thinking?” “We have a were-hyena with fangs who tasted like a hyena. And, by the way, never drink hyena. It’s disgusting. He had a weird aftertaste, maybe the age thing, maybe something else. Point – we have a mage-born who tasted old. Point – none of these people have living parents. Point – we know of at least two shifters with telepathy.” Excitement raced through her body, a tingling not unlike the thrill of anticipation on a date … or sex with MacNaught. Ugh,

keep your mind in the game, Chris. “What if, just what if, we’re dealing with a different kind of non-human?” “Impossible,” he said immediately, the denial automatic. But a moment later, his eyes widened with consideration as the possibility sank in. “But then again, I remember something Mother told me once.” Chris turned away from the computer at the distant tone. He was definitely concentrating harder than she had expected on the issue. He actually believes me! “Your mom?” “Aye.” He closed his eyes. “She warned me to always maintain vigilance, that the old ones might return. That she, and in turn I, must guard against that possibility. Even then, the mage-born were breeding more and more frequently with the humans, and our powers were beginning to fade. Kerrich was powerful because we refused to sully our bloodlines. I dismissed her concerns back then, because she had nothing concrete, other than ‘the histories say’ to throw at me.” “What are the Guardians of the Phase supposed to be?” A different tingle ran through her, mixing with the arousal, heightening it with excitement of another sort. He really did believe her. “I saw the phrase on your knife, and that’s why it stuck with me when I was in New York. You need to come back there with me. There’s a lot of stuff I couldn’t read. My Latin’s decent, but there were a lot of documents in old French, German, and even older languages, that might have information in them.” Cutting down on time, she opened a second window for the college’s database and entered a second set of parameters before hitting “enter” on both. The search engine might take time to compile everything, so she jumped up to pace. Anything to let off energy. She knew she was on the right track with this line of thought. “I never understood. Mother kept telling me ‘in time’ she would explain. She was prostrate with grief for quite some time after my brother passed, and of course, I was fostered with another mageborn family for a few years. Then, the call came for what would become the First Crusade, and off I went to the Holy Lands.” He grimaced at something related to that and stared up at the ceiling. “The Witch is involved, I suspect. I don’t know if she remembers me personally, but I remember her paying calls on more than one

occasion in my youth. Always just to Mother, not both of my parents.” Chris nodded and circled the tiny table, clasping her hands behind her back to try to contain the burgeoning excitement. “Xan predates the mage-born. I know that.” Jordan sat up and cocked his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?” “You’ve never hung out with Xan, have you?” “Ah, no. The woman wants me dead.” “Who doesn’t?” Xan was a model of common sense. “You, I hope. What makes you think she came before the mage-born?” Well aware of Jordan’s gaze on her, she deliberately added a bit of a sashay to her pace. If she had the hornies, it was only fair he suffer, too. They couldn’t do anything, not with Dee in the other room. “She and I talked a lot in those months she helped me harness my gifts. I know history. Mage-born date back to around twenty-six hundred B.C.E. in Egypt. Close to five thousand years.” He nodded to accept the statement. She didn’t hesitate now. “Xan admits she pre-dates the pyramids, but won’t say by how much. Once, back in the twenties, she mentioned the first mage-born she encountered, a high priest in Egypt. And the way she talked about the priest, I got a definite sense of pride, or accomplishment. Like she felt responsible for the mage-born existing, almost.” Jordan propped his elbows on his knees. “You could be right. I’m not sure how she’s hidden her origins if you’re correct, but it makes sense.” “Like Anthony, she doesn’t volunteer information, and no one’s crazy enough to actually ask her about her origins. They’re too busy pissing their pants and tiptoeing around her.” “Except you.” Chris snorted and stopped her pacing. “Oh, I tiptoe all right. Doesn’t mean I don’t talk to her. Hell, I still talk to you, and you tried to kill me.” **** One of these days, Jordan mused, he needed to clear up that misunderstanding. Intrigued and willing to acknowledge the validity of her points, he watched her return to circling the room. Little tidbits, fragments from his childhood, brought Chrissy’s notion into sharp

focus. He didn’t understand what “the Phase” was, and how or why they were supposed to guard it, but there must be something. He wondered, shifting to relieve some of the pressure straining against the inside of his pants, what it would take to convince her to put the couch to better use than merely sitting. Judging by the slight feminine exaggeration to her normal stride, she might just be in the mood. Add in that Athdara might wake up, walk in on them…. “Anyway,” Chrissy said, distracting him from the delicious imagined shock and outrage from the redhead. “You’ve seen the weirdness of these Aristocrats. What if they’re beyond our experience? When she came by, Xan said we didn’t know what we were dealing with yet. Maybe she knew there was another species out there, one older than the rest of us. Maybe they’re whatever she is. She was totally freaked out. At least freaked out for her. What if these anomalous creatures are more than what they appear? Somehow chameleon-like, blending in with the rest of us?” “None of the others, despite the oddness of their taste, had fangs.” He cast his mind back to the oddness of the injuries from the collar and wires. No burn marks. “Yours shifted like a vampire, dissolving. If Mr. Benjamin was like the hyena, why didn’t he escape? You killed the hyena by staking him. Wood killed him. We didn’t use wood on the lion.” She stopped, scowled, and then brightened. “I killed him by sticking a solid object through his heart. Damage from wood healed slowly, like a vamp. But what if he died because a weapon went through his heart? We die from objects through the heart, too.” Mr. Stoker’s book had convinced the humans only wood worked in that fashion. The Blood didn’t bother correcting the error. “Interesting points, all. But we can’t prove it without someone to experiment on. Or if Xanthea volunteers the information.” Jordan certainly wasn’t going to ask. Not with her death sentence still hanging over his head for his actions toward Athdara. Why on earth is everyone so protective of that woman? Anthony, Chrissy, and even non-interference-is-my-middle-name-Xanthea. “No one’s going to believe that another species can exist, undetected. We need proof of some sort. Something concrete.” Chrissy muttered something he didn’t catch, coming to a halt, hands on her hips to stare into space. She has the most lovely breasts,

he thought. He really wanted to sink his teeth into one of the nipples that had pressed into him when he pinned her against the door. “I wonder if Emily would let us have Miller’s body, or at least order an autopsy. Probably not without a good explanation. She isn’t likely to listen when I try to tell her they’ve got an alien in the morgue.” Hell and damnation. He wouldn’t get anything accomplished as long as she kept up the walk. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this hungry for her, other than the 1870s. But still, they’d soothed the mutual hunger only days before. It shouldn’t be rising this hot and fast, even taking into consideration their use of joint magic. Jordan rose and moved over to the laptop to see what search she was running. “I should call Xan.” The last time the witch had deigned to speak him was in eighteen ten, three nights after Anthony had retrieved Athdara for conversion. He wanted to keep it that way. Xanthea had told him then that if their paths ever crossed again, no one would ever find all the bits of him. “Do you think she’ll blithely tell you?” Chrissy shrugged, breasts jiggling. “Probably not.” Would she really object too much if he just hauled her to the ground? If she couldn’t dissolve on him, he’d find out. Until he fixed that problem, though, he wouldn’t embarrass himself experimenting. He wanted to, though. He cleared his throat and tried to think about his aging butler back in London naked. It didn’t help. “You know though,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I just thought of something.” I’ve thought of something, too. It involves you, me, and no clothes. Row after row of links covered the screen. Switching between the open windows, he saw a similar sight. The second search was on Mr. Benjamin. “Do I want to know?” “Yep. We should ask Xan about the whole tangled talent thing. If anyone would know how to untangle us, she would.” “Xanthea isn’t aware of what I am, and I intend it to remain that way.” He wasn’t entirely sure of that though, given the Witch might remember him from his time as Malcolm Kerrich and her visits to the manor. She turned and gave him a long look. “Do you really think she doesn’t know? I mean, she knows when my talents woke up, and

almost everyone in our community who lived in London at the time knew we did the dirty.” Time to move the conversation along before Chrissy grew too enamored with detangling them. “We’re getting off topic.” “Blah blah blah. You want to stay tangled?” **** Chris watched an indefinable expression cross his face before he settled into her vacated chair in front of the computer and tapped the machine. “Only until we’ve experimented with what it does for us. Your search here is done.” She leaned over his shoulder to peer at the screen, assiduously avoiding physical contact. If she did, she’d jump him. Would that be a bad thing, really? Who does it hurt any more? Dee’s got Anthony now. “You’re in my chair. Move it.” “More than one chair here, you know, and look at this.” He jiggled the laptop. “The machine moves. It’s not rooted in one spot.” I will not laugh. I will not laugh. He’s not that funny. She giggled. His dry humor had drawn her in two hundred years ago. That, and the whole pretty-boy/bad-boy thing. There was something to be said for rakes, even evil, sadistic ones. As she started to take the chair opposite him at the tiny table, he forestalled the action and hauled her into his lap. “On second thought, there’s room enough here for two.” Chris groaned as she landed, couldn’t refrain from rubbing against him as his masculine smell enveloped her. No one else smelled like the forest the way he did, and she didn’t even like to camp. Yet she couldn’t get enough of it. And since when did anyone put her on their lap? Anthony and Dee, with the twelve inch difference in height, could pull it off. She was too tall for such a silly position, and knew it. The idea of being over his lap, his hand landing on her bare ass, flashed in a drive-by daydream. Be good, be good. Oh, to hell with it. The attraction wasn’t going away, and what harm would a quick game of “Bounce the Jordan” do? Not like Anthony and Dee would hate her more or less based on the number of times she did him. “Jordan?” “Hm?”

“Out of consideration for your prior request, and given your advanced years, how much warning do you need?” She reached back and slid her fingers just inside the waistband of his jeans to get her point across, flicking the smooth skin of his upper groin. He straightened in the chair and nuzzled the side of her neck, drawing a husky moan from her. “How long would it take you to get your clothes off?” “There are advantages to how I shift,” she said with a grin, pivoting in his lap to face him and looped her arms around his neck. Despite the evidence nestled between her thighs under the layers of clothing, she still asked, “So, you up to the challenge?” “I think it’s clear I can rise to the occasion.” His cocky grin, which only a few days ago would have pissed her off, wrung a delighted laugh from her now. Jordan slid his hands under her shirt and up her back to the base of her bra strap in a teasing caress. “No shifting. It’s more fun removing things.” She sniffed, tugging the bottom of his t-shirt free of his jeans. “What’s with the slow-poke attitude lately? Never did before.” “Why are you always in a rush, hm?” The better to pretend I don’t want you, of course. Rather than answer, she lowered her mouth to his. If he couldn’t talk, she didn’t have to think about who she was with. She reached down and yanked his shirt upward. Their lips parted when she pulled the dark fabric over his head, tousling his hair. Tossing the garment aside, she skimmed her fingers down his arms. He was such a beautiful man, and the imperfections, scars she’d given him, only improved him. She’d marked him, as he’d marked her. No wonder they did so well together, both of them monsters in their own ways. Just take this, and stop thinking, Chris. “Chrissy?” he said, and she blinked. She’d been staring at his puckered skin for some time. Chris shook herself and reached to pull her tank-top off. Jordan’s hands covered hers, pausing the movement. “Slow down. This isn’t a race.” Jesus, what was his problem? He wanted her. There was ample evidence of that prodding the juncture of her thighs. Sliding her hands out from under his, she trailed her nails up his chest, tracing the outline of his pecs. A path of goose bumps rose in the wake of her touch. His questing touch slipped into her pants to stroke the upper portion of her butt.

The chair creaked under their combined weight as he shifted position, the action tilting her forward until she fell against him. She closed her eyes, breathed in the fragrance of pine mixing with her cinnamon candle, and nibbled at the skin beneath her lips. He tasted as good as he smelled, and she wanted, needed, to feel him in her. The “snap” when he unbuttoned her jeans barely intruded on her vague state. It certainly didn’t sway her from her exploration of the pale skin of his upper torso. With her pants undone, he had better access and cupped her ass. His skin burned against hers, and she threaded her hands into his hair to hold him in another long, deep kiss. Every time, it’s like London all over. She lost her equilibrium when he tightened his grip and stood up, still holding her. Jordan set her on the floor and dragged her pants down. An appreciative smile curled his mouth upward as he took in the tiny swatch of pink lace and silk masquerading as underwear. “Much better than those dreadful knickers I normally find on you.” She stepped out of her jeans, turning away to cover the faint blush. She’d forgotten about her underwear. If he liked the panties, he’d love the bra. Victoria’s Secret was her secret, too. “You’re wearing too many clothes, MacNaught,” she said and glanced back over her shoulder. “Strip, or face the consequences.” He laughed softly, hooking his thumb into a belt loop. “And what consequence would that be?” Chris brushed her hair back and swaggered back until they stood toe to toe and grinned. She rested her hands on the waistband of his jeans and pulled just hard enough that she heard a tiny rip from the denim. “Being less than perfectly polished when you walk out of here, since I know damned well you don’t have other clothes at hand. For you, that’s a fate worse than death.” “Bosh, but far be it from me to argue.” She moved back far enough that she could take in the sight, admire him, the heat in her stomach turning up to a low boil as he lazily stripped. He was so long and lean. Even his dick was attractive, and that wasn’t usually a man’s best feature. She pushed him back until he stumbled onto the waiting couch, straddling his lap before he recovered, and kissed him again. Squirming closer, she massaged the back of his neck and was satisfied at the husky moan it coaxed from him. He ran his hands over her thighs, squeezing, teasing.

“Chrissy?” The soft utterance caught her attention, but she wanted no part of conversation. Chris dug her nails into his back in answer, hoping he’d get the point and shut up. She brushed her lips against the scarring on his shoulder. The hands caressing her hips stilled, and then his grip shifted, tightening to still her movement against him. She sighed impatiently. Get in, get it done, get out. That’s always the deal. “Don’t try this crap…” Jordan’s teeth sank into her shoulder, hard enough his fangs drew blood. She hissed in pain and reared back to stare at him, a small rivulet of blood trickling down over her arm as his teeth withdrew. “What the hell?” “I wanted to be certain you knew who you were with.” She held perfectly still. Men were not supposed to call her out on details like that. “Don’t you think it’s time you stop pretending I’m someone else when we’re together?” The tinge of Scots in his accent came to the forefront as his tone deepened. He leaned forward to catch the tiny bead of blood on his tongue. She groaned. He wasn’t supposed to know about the pretense. He was supposed to be clueless and, if he did suspect, shut the hell up, just like Donovan and the rest. But he’s not like the rest, now is he? the annoying voice asked. “This is not the time for talk.” “Say my name. You never say it.” Heat flushed through her as energy poured through where their legs touched. Her panties didn’t make much of a barrier, and they were damp from her need. Now, if he’d just take the damned things off. “One word.” “Why?” She buried her face in the crook of his neck on the undamaged side. Just finish, and we can move on. We always do. “You get off either way.” Jordan pressed a series of kisses over her shoulder, lingering on the place where he had bitten her, fangs scraping the freshly wounded skin. A shiver went through her. “I want more from you than just your body. When we’re together, I want you focused on me, just as I am on you.” He nuzzled the underside of her jaw, just above where her turtleneck collar ended. “Am I so hideous with the scars you put on me, that you pretend?” Chris stilled, pulled back to stare down at him. He looked back, his angel’s face serious, green eyes glittering in the pale lamplight. “That’s what you think?”

“No, but you looked at me, didn’t you? You never do during sex.” The hand not currently snaking around to cup her breast slid beneath the thin material of her panties to tease the slick, sensitive flesh there. Breath hissed between her teeth at the little shockwaves his touch sent through her. No one else turned her insides to mush the way he did, with so little effort. “I want you, but not the way it has been. You can’t have it both ways, fucking me without acknowledging that I’m the man you want. Not some phantom lover, some weak-willed specimen you run roughshod over. None of your other men know you, or can understand what drives you the way I do.” It was his use of the word “fucking” that stuck out most. He never used profanity, not in English or any other language. “I know who I’m with,” she said, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him briefly. No one else would bring up other men in the middle of foreplay. “Let go entirely, Christine. At least in bed, like it was in London, before what we both did. Trust me that much.” One finger slid into her as he flicked her clit with his thumb. He captured her moan as he kissed her again. Trust him, trust him. That’s what it always came down to. He was right. When with others, she fantasized about being with him, the only man who ever made her heart race with excitement. He’d said it best, days earlier. She found it incredibly sexy that she couldn’t control him, or manipulate him. He was the only uncontrolled thing in her life, laying waste to all her safe zones. “Damn it, you have no right to expect that.” Her protest was much weakened, given the fingers toying with her, igniting every nerve ending in her body. “You buried me.” Jordan leaned over, gently bit her right breast through her tank top. “And you burned me. I’d say we’re even. I trust you in bed, and I just ask that you give me the same in return. No more pretense. I won’t tolerate it any longer.” Tolerate? That ignited more than lust, and she glared at him. “Oh puh-lease. Like you could tell the difference.” His second hand tangled in her hair, tugging her head back until her throat was exposed, and then he bit her. That bite wasn’t gentle, though the skin remained unbroken. And damn it all, her blood raced. She squirmed for relief, found none as her breasts brushed

against his chest. Against her neck he said, “I’ve always known. I chose to ignore it. No longer.” Her channel clenched around his finger, and she clutched at his shoulders to combat the feeling of vertigo, bent back as she was. Licking her lips, she nodded. “Fine, yes. I’ll try.” Right then, she’d agree to sell her soul rather than continue the damned conversation, and he made valid arguments. They both had reason for distrust, and if he could overlook her attack, she should at least try to overlook his. Jordan yanked her up, fingers sliding from her flimsy underwear to reach for the bottom of her shirt. Chris groaned at the loss, but took comfort that it wouldn’t be long until he filled her, drive the need for talk out of them both. Her tank top joined the pile of discarded clothes a second later, and his gaze narrowed on her breasts, on display in a demi-bra of pink silk and lace that matched the underwear. “Very, very nice,” he said and pressed a kiss to the bared top globes. “But it has to go.” He glanced up, a devilish glint in his eyes. “You didn’t have a chance to go home, after you flew back, did you?” Her heart stuttered at the look, so hot and intense right then she half expected to combust under it. “N, no?” “Good, then you’ll have others at hand.” That said, he yanked the material. It ripped under the pressure, the sides falling off. He repeated the action with her panties, leaving her as bare as he. “Much better, attractive though they were.” Chris laughed. “You think so?” “Mm-hm.” “Good. Now that we’ve gotten the jibber jabber out of the way and we’re both naked, would you mind shutting up and getting serious?” She reached between their bodies and stroked him, smearing the tiny drop of moisture that had leaked from the head with her thumb. His cock twitched in her hand, and he groaned. “Still in a rush, I see.” For an entirely different reason now, Chris realized. Now she just wanted him, to see him, feel him inside her. The rest of the world could go to hell, at least for now. “I don’t want to wait any longer, Jordan. Right now.” He caught her lip between his teeth and sucked it into his mouth. She trembled, wanting more and continued stroking him.

“Far be it for me to deny you,” he said. Exerting just enough pressure, he guided her back until they lay the length of the couch. He settled between her thighs, sheathing himself inside her to the hilt. It was heaven, the way he fit. Chris ran her hands down his sides, whimpering as he began to move. Slowly at first, then with increased speed and fervor as the fire consumed her from the inside out. “God, yes.” Her eyes drifted shut to better enjoy the moment, not be distracted by anything beyond each hard thrust of his body. She writhed against him and whimpered, actually whimpered, when he stopped. “Chrissy.” She blinked, looked up and saw the tiny frown that creased his forehead. “Eyes on me.” Jordan braced himself on his elbow, staring down at her, green eyes dark with barely leashed control. “Each time you look away or close your eyes, I will stop.” “Dude.” That’s just not right. “Jordan, not dude.” He leaned forward to run his tongue against the top edge of the scar Ares’s minion had left on her. She groaned, arching against him as he surged into her again. She ran her toes down his leg, feeling the corded muscle beneath her foot as his legs flexed. It wouldn’t take long, not at this rate. Not for her, and not for him. Gripping his shoulders, she scored the skin with her nails, and she felt the shudder that ran through his body as he pressed into her. Her climax built, the need and fire crashing through her, and she twined her legs with his hips as he moved in her. “Hurry, dear God, hurry, Jordan.” He chuckled and paused, withdrawing most of the way. Chris yowled in protest, the noise mutating to a sultry moan as he lowered his lips to hers, his tongue filling her mouth and tangling with hers. Caught up in the kiss, she still noticed when he caught her hands, still digging into his shoulders, and pulled them over her head. Jordan anchored them against the arm rest of the couch with one hand, reaching down between their joined bodies with the other to toy with her clit. When she couldn’t pull free, and she tried automatically, fear wasn’t what rose in her. Desire, hot and savage, bit down hard, and her orgasm ripped her asunder.

**** It took almost five minutes before Chris felt like moving again. Jordan’s solid weight pressing her into the couch failed to invoke the old claustrophobia, and she nestled against him. His heart beat slow and steady once more against her before he leaned back and studied her seriously. He traced along the ridge of her forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re suspiciously quiet, Chrissy.” “I, ah, didn’t really have much to say.” And that was certainly a first for her. “Someone call the presses,” he said and sat back on his haunches, pulling her up with him. “That was enjoyable.” Enjoyable didn’t begin to sum up the experience. But she wasn’t about to go all gushy, especially since he was playing it cool. They might have found some sort of weird trust during sex, but otherwise? She swung her legs off the couch and got up to retrieve her clothes. “Well, er, now that I think we’ve gotten that out of our systems, maybe we should get back to what we were doing.” Chris peered around and sighed at her ruined underwear. Fun in the moment, having them torn off, but she’d barely gotten a chance to wear the set. “You started it.” She grunted, trying to decide whether they needed to talk about what had happened or not. Jordan scooped up his pants in the meantime and shook out a few stray wrinkles. Without looking at her, he asked, “Might I inquire something of you?” Pulling her clothes on, she fixed her gaze on the computer screen. Hopefully if she looked like she’d moved on, he would take the hint and do likewise. She needed time to process what she’d just done, getting off because he’d held her down, before she could even attempt a rational conversation on the matter. “You’re bothering to ask permission?” “I want an honest answer, and this would seem to be the opportune moment.” Oh God, please don’t let him ask if I enjoyed it. I did; he knows I did. Does he have to rub it in? “Ask away. I’m generally pretty honest.” If one overlooked lying to one’s best friends about sleeping with their mortal enemy, lying to one’s current significant other about sleeping with another man multiple times over the

centuries, and lying about one’s very essence, no one topped her for honesty. “Page five.” Chris breathed a muted sigh of relief that his question didn’t relate to sex. The next moment, she tensed up because she hadn’t been looking forward to this discussion either. Behind her, she heard his faintly annoyed sigh just before he tugged her down onto his lap again, digging strong fingers into the tight muscles in her shoulders. Instinct took over, and she started to get up. Jordan’s grip tightened just enough, and he said soothingly, “Calm down. I just have a question.” “Not upset.” Okay, she lied about being calm, too. Maybe she wasn’t as honest as she thought. “Oh no, of course not. Did you use your gifts to encourage me to not look at the curse agreement a final time before we signed it, or was I that careless of my own volition?” Jordan didn’t sound angry, just mildly curious. The deep ministration to her muscles eased, stopped altogether, and then a lump she quickly recognized as his head rested against the small of her back. He’d never struck her as a cuddler. Then again, he’d proven over the past few days he wasn’t at all like she’d thought. And, God and Dee forgive her, she was genuinely coming to like him and, maybe in some ways, admire him. Certainly she enjoyed being around him, his darker side notwithstanding. “I expected you to read through one last time, but you didn’t.” She was going to have to make a choice, eventually. She couldn’t keep lying to Dee and Anthony. The only question was, what was she going to tell them? “Ah, so I can blame only myself. So be it.” Jordan wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close. “You smell good. Warm, all Chrissy, with just a hint of horse. Most women can’t pull off horse with panache, but you manage.” As compliments went, she’d heard better, but she took that as high praise from him, given the race horses he raised. He’d been trying for years to obtain breeding rights with Marcus, offering an obscene amount of money for them. One of these days, she might let him get them. Maybe. Chris squirmed free and moved to the other chair before she lost what remained of her common sense and talked about what they’d just done. Jordan would probably laugh his ass off at her if she

said anything. Marriage to Angel notwithstanding, he was hardly the type to get involved. And it’s time to wipe that notion out of your head right now, Chris Javert. “Let’s get back to business, okay? Play time’s over.” She sensed, rather than witnessed, the fading of his relaxed mood. “As you wish,” he said and hooked an elbow over the back of his chair. “On one condition.” Ready to do or agree to just about anything, just so she could stop dithering over her problem, she said, “Name it.” “We’ve been on the run since we dealt with Mr. Townsend. Provided no other crises arise in the meantime, I still have the opera tickets for us. Aida’s opening, and the cast is unmatched. You owe me a date for your loss when I popped in some days ago.” “How can you think about the opera at a time like this?” “It’s not that big of a crisis. We can only deal with what we have, and unless you know something I don’t, or can magically make the Witch show up so we can question her about the Guardians and/or the notion of whatever she is, there’s little left for us to pursue. I certainly have no more leads to follow right now, and your search for the documents in SRI will likely take some time, yes?” Chris nodded and prodded the laptop until it scooted back on the table. It’d give her an excuse to wear the dress she’d bought in New York. “I do wish you’d pick something other than the opera, though.” “You like opera; don’t say you don’t. I saw the recordings of Robert Kinsale in your collection. Where the devil did you find them?” She blushed a little and squirmed at the look he shot her. “I like listening to him, but the rest of it’s nothing more than noise. Unpleasant noise. Verissa had some old records, and I copied them. I know, I know, illegal, but he’s long dead now.” Jordan smiled faintly. “You might be surprised. Come with me tomorrow without further protest, add in a formal dinner before the performance, and I will tell you all about Mr. Kinsale and just where he can be found. He is very much alive. Well, as as alive as a member of the Blood can be.” “’Riss didn’t tell me that.” And Riss knew how much she’d wanted to meet Kinsale. What the heck was up with people keeping

secrets from her? Did no one tell her anything any more? She didn’t gossip. “It wasn’t her information to tell.” Jordan grinned. “So, if you really want to know, just say yes. And don’t complain about seeing dinner twice. You still eat. I found chocolate stashed about your home in just about every conceivable hiding place.” God, I’m easy. Just dangle knowledge in front of me, and I’m like a freakin’ puppy dog who’s been patted on the head. Squeezing her eyes shut so she didn’t see the smirk she knew he’d give her, she nodded. “I’m in. You better put out, MacNaught. I want the information, and if you know something…” “Chrissy, rest assured. You’ll be quite satisfied in the end.”

Chapter Twenty-Two From VampiresForever.bnha.org – On BloodMagi If for some reason the notion of the Circle or Council ordering your execution isn’t enough to sway you from the idiocy of conversion, keep this in mind: it’s illegal in the United States to be a blood-mage. In this day and age, you’re likely already registered as mage-born with the Bureau. You can’t turn around and register as a vamp, and if you don’t register, life is a lot rougher than it needs to be.

An hour later found Chris on the balcony of the suite, staring out over the city. Martin Vega wasn’t using his credit cards or anything else that might give them a lead on his location. She didn’t want to take a chance on looking at too many records in the Bureau database, and no doubt hundreds, if not thousands, of the other species registered themselves and/or were orphans. They needed more to go on. The same thought circled her rambling mind over and over. Only one tie existed between everyone, a tie Dee had discovered the night before when she interviewed Victor at A’Jin’Cor. All three victims had passed through the club before their deaths. To the best of her knowledge, Donovan was the only one who had known her intention to fly to Louisiana. Donovan had found the first bodies in the States. “Fuck.” She banged her right hand against the solid iron railing. It rang out with a hollow chime. “Damn it all to hell.” Chris spun and slammed back into the suite. Hands tucked behind his head as he watched the news, Jordan looked over at her. “Problem?” “I’m going out. You’re coming with me because I don’t trust you alone with Dee.” At least eleven hours remained before her friend

sweated out enough of the alcohol in her system to return to the conscious world. He glanced back at the television. A perky little blonde reporter sat at the news desk, talking about the flu spreading quite rapidly around the globe. Apparently now, either the virus had mutated or there was a second one, because the blonde was chirping about a slew of deaths. “Where did you have in mind?” “A’Jin’Cor.” As she hoped, he muted the television and sat up. “Only three people besides me knew about Brad Connors. Anthony told Dee. I told Donovan. That’s just one too many coincidences involving the ‘Cor.” Jordan rolled to his feet and scooped up his jacket. “I wondered how long it would take you to come to that conclusion. But, given your tender feelings toward Mr. Tate, I doubted you’d listen, so I was content to wait.” She couldn’t ignore the possibility any more, having tried to bury it since she first thought of it in Louisiana. “Just let me do the talking, Jordan. Donovan doesn’t need you landing on him.” “Mr. Tate knows I’m a member of the Circle, Chrissy. Use that for leverage against potential recalcitrance.” Chris glanced uncertainly at the closed doorway to the bedroom. If they left, Dee would be totally vulnerable to anyone that might come by. If Ares sent a minion, who’d protect her? Jordan saw the look. “She’s safe enough. One of Ares’s people could have killed her last night, but didn’t. Anthony told me more about his visit from the dream-walker. Apparently they want Athdara to remain alive to help negotiate when we sue for peace because the other species trust her to be fair.” His expression told her just how likely the possibility for surrender was. A metaphorical Death Valley snowball had a better chance of survival. “Fine.” “Once we’re done with Mr. Tate, we need to block off my dreams. I’m sick of Ares reaching in and erasing my memory of Aristocrat faces every time they come around.” Having suffered that with the attempted assassination at her home, Chris couldn’t blame him. As they made for the elevator, she listened to his summary of an encounter with Loki and frowned. She hit the “down” button.

The tale just lent further credence to the notion Dee was now a member of the Circle. How or why else would Jordan know about the trouble at Dee’s place? “Why the hell were you near Dee in the first place? You’re not allowed to hurt her any more.” A sly smile quirked up one edge of his mouth. “You’re a smart girl, Chrissy. Too smart to ask that question without guessing the answer.” Anthony wouldn’t answer. He never did. Sometimes though, Jordan would. “I think Anthony brought her into the Circle for the same reason Ares wants her alive. She’s a valuable resource because of her influence with the other species.” The elevator door slid open as Jordan spoke. “I will neither confirm nor deny Athdara’s ascension into the ranks of the Circle. Hypothetically speaking, however, in a world where it is not forbidden to reveal membership in the Circle without permission of said member, I will say this. Anthony’s not the one who nominated her. I am.” That statement took the floor out from under her feet. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say the rest of the trip down to the lobby and into the truck. **** It might be Saturday morning, but Donovan never opened the club the first night after the full moon. It took a full day and night to clean and repair minor damage from the shifters. So when she pulled into the lot she wasn’t surprised to find it empty, save for Donovan’s gray SUV and Victor’s little black Accord. At three in the morning, the rest of the staff had probably cleared out. “Quiet night here,” Jordan said. “Which is good. He won’t be too busy to talk. Just, well, look menacing. You’re good at that.” “Why, thank you. I try.” At the door to the club, he squeezed her butt. Chris spun, ready to deck him. How dare he, in public, no less! Jordan caught the fist aimed in his direction inches from his chest. “Chrissy, I wouldn’t advise that. Do you remember what I promised would happen if you hit me?” “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smiled thinly. “Wouldn’t I? Which one of us spends far too much time worrying about what others think of her, and which one doesn’t give a damn?” Her cheek heated, and she yanked her hand from his. “Bast … er, jackanapes. Why did you just grab my ass?” Since he didn’t normally grope her, she had to ask. Oh hell, there is no normal any more. I’ve got a sociopath squatting with me, and I like him. Normal left the building last week. Jordan grinned, and the string of gems he held out sparkled in light from the A’Jin’Cor sign. “I was retrieving this. Grabbing your backside was just a bonus. Put it on. I suspect you don’t want to use violence on Mr. Tate to get him talking. Dream-walking isn’t half as much fun as carving flesh, but it might work.” “He won’t go to sleep with you in the building.” “He doesn’t need to sleep, just let his mind wander. I’ll show you how to access his memories that way. He won’t even know I’m involved in the search.” Chris fumbled with the clasp, considering that, until Jordan sighed and snatched the necklace back. “Turn around. We don’t have all night, considering our appointment with Ms. Carstairs.” She did as bidden and lifted her hair. His fingers brushed the side of her neck as he reached around her to slide it on. Just a light caress, yet warmth suffused her body. Another drive-by image, this time of them against the ‘Cor’s wall in the shadows, jolted her. His suggestion of a waking dream made a connection that, in retrospect, she should have made days ago. Her temper ignited as realization smacked into her. She turned, grabbed Jordan’s jacket collar, and slammed him into the club’s brick wall. “You rotten jackass. It was you in the shower, wasn’t it? You used your gifts on me that first day, didn’t you?” His tolerant smile after banging into the brick wall widened into a genuine grin. “Finally put that one together, did you? I told you, you can choose obvious times and yet be quite subtle about using your gifts. Chrissy, there is so much dream-walkers can do, when they know what they’re doing. Even I, with my limitations, have a great deal of fun.” She growled low in her throat, unamused. Three more incidents came to mind, all the way back to when he first showed up.

She banged his head against the wall. “It hasn’t been me at all, those damned fantasies, has it? You’re putting them into my head.” Jordan’s expression changed, very subtly, just a certain craftiness and glint in his eyes. It was the only warning she got before an invisible force clamped down and paralyzed her entire body. Chris tried to dissolve, and the effort failed. She couldn’t even blink. This can’t be good. He calmly reached up and pried open her fingers to gain his release. “Very good again. However, I can’t make you respond to a fantasy in any particular fashion. Your reactions were all you.” “What did you do to me?” Another waking dream? Couldn’t be, she hadn’t been distracted, no daydream to work with. “Focuses are useful in many ways.” He tugged his jacket down, smoothing out the wrinkles from where she grabbed the collar, and then folded his arms over his chest to study her. “They focus our abilities, even amplify them. But when we wear a focus created by someone else, they can be used against us, as you see. Never, ever use a focus you haven’t created yourself unless you trust the maker implicitly not to turn on you.” Xanthea never told me about that! Eeek. And she’d nonchalantly put the blasted thing on. “Okay, got it. You can let up now.” The sooner he did, the sooner she could rip the damned thing off. Never again, never, never, never. He trailed a finger down her cheek, coming to stroke her lower lip. “Ahh, what I wouldn’t give to have you alone right now, where we wouldn’t be disturbed for a couple of days. Follow up on that discussion you fled from when you left for New York.” Her heart turned over in her chest. She couldn’t look away, and to her horror, she realized she didn’t want to. Shit. I don’t do that sort of thing. I steam-roller, yet … Jordan curved an arm around her back and drew her close. Just before he kissed her, they heard a muffled shriek from inside the club. The force holding her motionless dissolved. His expression went flat and cold. “That sounded like your Mr. Tate.” It sounded more like Pierce while they tortured him, to her mind. Chris nodded and reached down to grab her knives as she reached out with her senses. She only picked up Donovan and Victor. She stifled the urge to bolt in. They needed a plan, if something was going on inside.

“I’m only sensing two people in there. What about you?” He frowned, nodded his head. “A vampire and dhampire.” Jordan yanked her to a halt when she began moving after hearing another scream. “Don’t be a fool, Christine. We should do a little reconnaissance before you go dashing in.” A third scream filtered through the door, this one more of a wail. “I’m not going to dither outside. Shadow’s not quiet – they know I’m here.” “Go on, then. With luck they won’t know I’m here until we want them to. Just don’t get killed walking through the door,” he said and dissolved. She yanked open the door and raced inside. The sight that greeted her would haunt her for years, assuming she survived that long. Donovan lay staked to his own bar, blood dribbling from his mouth as his head lolled back. Victor stood over him, pale eyes lit from within as he yanked a common kitchen knife out of her friend’s shoulder. The dhampire lifted his head as the door banged shut behind her. “I knew you or someone would come shortly.” He moved around the blood-stained bar. “Once MacKechnie rooted around, it was inevitable.” “Victor, how could you?” Since when did a mild-mannered Jamaican bartender turn on his friends like this? Donovan was godfather to Victor’s daughter. “This is just the beginning, Chris.” He pointed the bloody knife at her. “Ares won’t stop until we win.” “Ares, Ares, Ares. Who is this Ares?” She eyed him warily, keeping her senses open. Jordan’s presence pinged only because of the blood-bond between them. He was upstairs in Donovan’s apartment, heading down. Donovan moaned, tried to move, but the wood driven through his ankles and shoulders put a stop to that. The shards looked to have come from the smashed barstool heaped to the left of the bar. “Unfortunately, you won’t have a chance to find out. No monologue, pretty lady, no tell-all. You just die.” Her gaze swept the brightly lit interior of the club. The lights in the main section of the club cast the upper level deep into shadows. She couldn’t see who or what might be up there. Victor wouldn’t be

this confident without backup, any more than Pierce had been. He knew her skills with a blade. “C’mon, you could at least—” “Christine, floor!” She dropped to her knees at Jordan’s warning and felt something disturb the air just above her head. A thunk echoed from the door behind her as something slammed into the solid surface. Chris didn’t spare a look back. A high-pitched scream came from the stairwell near Donovan’s apartment, followed by a heavy thud. Two figures loomed out of her peripheral vision, a man and woman. She leaped back to her feet and backed closer to the wall to assess her opponents. The pair before her could be twins, so alike were their features. Angular faces, trim and tall. Abnormally, Xanthea-like tall, for the woman. All this she took in the instant before they moved to attack. She brought her arm up to block the man’s claws that otherwise would rake across her face. She didn’t have a problem handling herself in two-on-one, but she glimpsed Victor maneuvering across the floor. “Jordan?” “Be there shortly. We have company up here as well.” Chris ducked beneath the razor-like claws and arm of the woman. The move saved Chris’s throat, but ripped a hole in her tshirt. She straightened and spun, nicking the woman’s side, kicking out at the same moment to knock the man back. Victor’s presence on her mental radar blanked out as he dissolved. Oh shit, he can do that? Dhampires shouldn’t be able to disappear or mask their presence, any more than shifters could vanish or most mage-born could conceal their location. The twins, for lack of a better word, swung simultaneously, their moves beautifully choreographed, as if they’d been fighting and working together for a very long time. Chris jumped forward and heard their bodies collide in the space she left. Why couldn’t she sense any of them? She whirled to face them, but carefully placed her back to the wall so Victor couldn’t pop in behind her for the kill. In the moment they took to recover their balance upon missing her, she shifted to her other sight. Her mouth fell open even as she dove back into the fray, slashing out. A hank of bottle-blonde hair fluttered to the ground from the woman. Instead of any particular color, both auras were riots of color. No banding, no solid chunks, just coruscating hues from the entire

spectrum. In short, it looked like nothing she’d ever heard, seen, or read about in her entire existence. “Oh my God, Jordan, look at their auras.” “Woman, a bit bu—What the name of all the blessed saints is that?” Satisfied he saw the same thing she did, wherever and whoever he was dealing with, she drove her silver/mahogany knife into the soft, fleshy part of the woman’s arm. Don’t kill ‘em, gotta get information, she chanted silently. She dodged to one side as Jordan dropped from the balcony above and blocked the swing of the tall man, yanking him aside. “They’ve got vamp fangs, too, Jordan.” The pair grappled, claws and teeth in full evidence. They almost knocked Chris over. The woman swept with her foot to trip Chris, but Chris jumped over it and rammed her elbow into her foe. Victor remained MIA. The woman grunted, fell back with a gasp. So they needed to breathe. They couldn’t be second-lifers then. A blow like that to a true vampire would startle, but not otherwise cause a problem. She sent the information to Jordan and redoubled her efforts, landing three swift blows to the woman as she reeled. Under the assault, the blonde turned to silver mist and streamed upward. Chris turned back to Jordan and the man in time to see Victor finally put in an appearance, slicing a wicked gash to Jordan’s thigh. He yelped, snarled. “Damn it all,” she cursed and dove into the tussling trio. Her first blow, this time on the dark man with her titanium/mahogany weapon, landed square in the middle of his back, a lucky blow given how fast they all moved. The stranger bellowed in pain and rage, swung round to face the new threat. Chris didn’t have time to yank her weapon back, and the movement ripped it from her grasp. **** When the man turned to face Christine, Jordan took advantage and yanked the weapon free at the same time as he drove his other fist into Victor’s chest. Bones cracked, snapped and flesh ripped under the blow. Blood, previously just a tantalizing hint, turned overwhelming as the liquid gushed from the opening in his enemy. Trusting Christine to handle herself and the man for a moment, Jordan shifted to his other vision, hoping to catch sight of an aura. Sometimes, auras revealed what lay otherwise invisible. The

chaotic swirls of the woman flashed before his eyes as she reformed directly in front of him. His reflexive slash with the purloined knife ripped across her breasts, and blood splashed hot on his face. She yowled and slithered back. Following up, he sliced again. Her arm barely blocked his blow, and the blade dug into her arm. He twisted, felt and heard bone snap under the force. She dissolved, and to prevent a shot from behind now that he was no longer against the wall, he dissolved as well. The brief break gave him the opportunity to check Christine’s progress and be certain no one else was lingering to join the fun. She dropped to the ground to avoid claws driving toward her neck. As she skidded along the coarse floorboards, she kept presence of mind enough to twist around and land a nasty slice at the man’s Achilles tendon, clearly her preferred disabling tactic. Oh, good show. He giggled. The silver mist of the woman dropped toward the pair as the man’s pain-ridden scream echoed throughout the nightclub. The attacking man pinwheeled his arms to avoid crashing, but failed, toppling onto Victor, who lay motionless save for faltering breaths. Given he couldn’t reach Christine before the mist did, Jordan touched her thoughts. “Incoming.” **** Chris went insubstantial at the split-second warning just as the woman reformed. A solid body slammed into the floor in her justvacated spot. Floating up, she spared a glance for the fallen man. He lay prone, bleeding profusely from his left leg. If he were like a member of the Blood, the wound would heal given time, but would incapacitate for the duration. She saw Jordan reform below, behind the woman as she rolled to her feet. He caught her head and gave a quick, sharp twist. Crack. The woman’s neck snapped like so many little twigs, and she toppled into a heap. Like Chris, Jordan aimed to incapacitate, not kill. Christine drifted to the ground, reforming to pick up her knife. As she did, the man dissolved. She gnashed her teeth as his mist cloud streamed out under the door. Jordan didn’t hesitate in scooping up her other discarded weapon, the mahogany/silver one, and drove it into the woman’s foot, point embedded in the floor below. A yowl rang through the club, but until her spinal cord healed enough to restore motion, she couldn’t

pull free; and as she didn’t vanish, it seemed to block her shifting as well. “Let’s have a little talk, shall we?” He knelt next to the Amazon. “What in bloody hell are you?” Her eyes, dark gray now that Chris had time to focus on little details, blinked, but she otherwise showed no response. Chris took the time drive a stake through Victor’s thigh, uncaring of the bone she broke in the process. He might die from the chest wound or might not. Either way, he wouldn’t escape. A siren’s wail filtered through the now-silent club as Donovan groaned again from the bar. She scooped up her clothes as she moved toward her friend. Was law enforcement heading in their direction? It wouldn’t be impossible, given the Bureau lay only three blocks away from the club. But who called? Behind her, the Amazon gave a muffled scream. “Jordan, you can’t torture her.” “I beg to differ, Christine. She’s made of flesh and blood; therefore I can.” “The curse, you idiot.” “It outlaws entertainment. This is business, my dear.” Good point. Dismissing Jordan from her thoughts, Chris gripped the first of the wood fragments, the one in Donovan’s right shoulder. “Brace yourself.” He looked vaguely up at her. “Chris?” “Hey, hon.” Chris rubbed away tears from his cheek. “Why’re you naked? S’not my birthday.” He slurred his words, hazel eyes dull from pain. How like a man, sex on the brain even when in agony. Being staked was never fun, and she didn’t think Donovan had ever experienced the “joy” of it before. “Try to stay with me here. I’m gonna get the bolts out of you so you can heal. There blood in the fridge below?” “Sure, always.” His eyes rolled back in his head. Out like a light. Thank goodness. Taking a deep breath, she yanked the first stake out. In his blissful unconsciousness, he didn’t even whimper. The same could not be said for the focus of Jordan’s attention. Flesh struck flesh. “Answer me.”

“Jordan, stop.” She yanked her shirt over her head before working on the second stake. The club was chilly. The sirens grew louder, and she swore. “We’re about to have visitors, from the sound of those sirens. You’ll get your ass hauled to jail.” “She jumped you! Self-defense, Christine.” He sounded offended by the notion of being arrested. “She’s down; she’s helpless. Aren’t we in enough trouble these days without you slipping into your old habits?” He grunted, but she heard no more gooey squishes; so hopefully he’d stopped. “Jordan, can you fix her mind? She saw me shift, damn it, and the Bureau will scan her. I can’t be arrested if you want my help.” “Blast, you’re right. Delay the authorities while I attend to that.” Chris glanced once more at Donovan and scrambled into her jeans. Questions might be raised if the authorities came in and saw her undressed, questions she couldn’t chance them seeking answers to. Tires screeched out in the parking lot, barely audible through the heavy doors, and she grabbed her boots. Damn it, she really needed to know how to shift like a vampire. Granted, until recently, she rarely ever risked shifting, but if the current trend continued, either she’d learn, or she’d spend a crapload of time getting dressed. As she thrust her left foot into a boot, a new presence appeared on her awareness. Not from outside the club, though she sensed at least two humans outside as well. No, the new presence came from across from her. A vampire. Chris twisted on the ground, mouth falling open as she realized the location of the new presence came from Jordan’s interrogatee. Oh my God. As she switched to her other vision, she knew Jordan was doing the same, based on the startled expression on his face. The riot of colors flashed brilliantly twice before resolving into black with pale bronze banding. Typical vampire aura. Houston, we’ve got a flippin’ problem! The door was yanked open at the same instant she shoved her second foot into the waiting boot. Jordan’s thoughts touched hers. “We cannot tell the authorities what we just saw, Christine. You realize that, yes?”

“Yes.” Unfortunately, she concurred. Vamps couldn’t read auras. They could however, mention the woman’s abrupt appearance on their senses, couldn’t they? Two uniformed officers swept in, weapons sweeping the interior of the club. “Tampa PD!” Chris paused, unsteadily halfway standing, and raised her hands to show no weapons. Granted, if she really wanted to get her ass in trouble, two humans with their standard-issue guns wouldn’t do more than annoy her. “You got thr—, er, four vamps and a dhampire alive in here, officers. Call the Bureau. You’re gonna need them.”

Chapter Twenty-Three From Athdara MacKechnie’s memo regarding current council representatives in ’94 to then-Director Harold Cummings: I will repeat what my predecessor told your predecessor. Xanthea Xanthos must be treated as a member of the Council should she call on anyone related to the Bureau for any reason. She deserves all consideration, and more. I will remind you most respectfully, sir, of the explosion seen three years ago in the Sahara. That was the last anyone heard of a group of rogue vampires who angered the lady. Our current defense mechanisms here at the Bureau are not sufficient to contain her if you upset her. There’s a reason our Council tolerates her existence without comment, and it’s called her temper.

Chris rested her head on her arms with a weary sigh in Dee’s darkened office. Thanks to Donovan’s statement before they carted him off for a pointless trip to the hospital, she and Jordan were clear of all suspicion in the club attack. Still, the Bureau had kept them for “questioning,” given Jordan’s previous issues. Jordan had had his interview with Carstairs. Together, they’d kept the nastiness with Pierce from cropping up, along with their shared guilty secret. The effort had left her exhausted. She hadn’t dropped into a deep, recuperative sleep in days. Nothing would make her happier than to be at home, curled up in bed. Emily had let her hole up in Dee’s office while she processed paperwork on Jordan. He’d been requested to act as a special consultant, given his past history with the original Aristocrats. When the door opened and shut just past eleven, she sighed. No mistaking the presence on her radar, even in a relatively crowded building. Jordan was finally done, it seemed. “What now?”

“I’ve arranged transport for us back to your home,” he said. He crossed the office to perch against the desk. When she looked up, he was looking out over the Hillsborough River. “According to Ms. Carstairs when I inquired on your behalf, Mr. Tate will survive his injuries.” “S’good. Are you sayin’ the Bureau’s driving us south? It’s way too late for you to be in my truck.” It was too late for her, too, and she doubted she could stay awake long enough to drive. “No, Anthony’s lending us his car and driver.” She blinked. “And just what did you tell him to get him to offer that?” Jordan glanced down with just a hint of his shark’s smile. “He didn’t offer. I commandeered. To quote a movie I believe you’re quite fond of, given the poster in your bedroom, ‘it’s good to be the king’.” He liked Mel Brooks and did a fair imitation of the man. I’ll be damned. Go figure. “What’d you tell him ‘bout squatting with me?” Crossing the office to close the blinds, he didn’t look at her again. “We need to regroup, take a few days to determine what to do now that the Aristocrats aren’t hiding any more. I didn’t tell him anything. Anthony knows we’re working together on the current problem.” Unsteady, Chris pushed up and away from the desk with a nod. Hopefully Stuffy Britches would be too occupied with Dee to wonder, at least for the moment. “Consider me on vacation until after Sarah’s funeral. Regardless of your personal opinion of Dee, or me, until you have a lead for me on Martin Vega or something else, I’ve done everything I can for the moment.” “So you have, and you have my appreciation for everything you’ve done for me, both on behalf of the Circle and personally with regard to Angel.” Chris blinked, swayed on her feet with a yawn. He took the three steps that separated them and tilted her chin up to examine her face. “You look knackered. You definitely need sleep before dealing with Athdara.” “’Kay,” she mumbled. Chris couldn’t stop the yawn and might have flopped back onto the chair if he hadn’t curled a companionable arm around her. She leaned into him and rested her head on his

shoulder. With a hint of her normal bluster, she said, “I’m not weak, just tired. So don’t get any ideas.” He chuckled and squeezed her shoulder. “If you were weak, I wouldn’t bother with you, Chrissy. A friend is solicitous toward one’s friends.” Her eyebrows lifted to her hairline. She stared at him. “Us? Friends?” **** “I do have them.” Never before had he included a woman in those ranks, Jordan acknowledged privately. Not even Angel. His wife had been a convenience, a partner in all that went into his Bloody Baron side, and a very pretty ornament for his arm. Chrissy left Angel in the dust in all respects. From what he’d gleaned during the brief time in the cupola, Caldwell didn’t pay her the respect due her efforts. He didn’t intend to make the same mistake. He wanted too much more from her than he had so far gained to tiptoe around the subject. He’d start with friendship, hopefully with benefits on a regular basis that included more experimentation as to how far her desires extended, and then see where things led from there. “Can’t tell—” “The old man or Athdara, yes, yes.” He cut her off, tried to ignore the little sliver of something akin to hurt that she wanted to hide their connection so utterly. “So be it, though you’re being silly.” She looked toward the door. For her next comment, she switched to telepathy. “Want me to block off your dreams before I go to sleep?” At this point, she’d likely pass out if she tried. Gray flesh didn’t look good on anyone, not even her, and she’d gone ashen from exhaustion. “It can wait a few more hours, my dear. If nothing else, rest on the drive back to Fort Myers, and then we can give it a go.” The door cracked open. He didn’t loosen his hold on her even when she would have slithered away as Athdara’s buxom blonde assistant peeked in. He eyed Ronnie Mansfield, with her red nose and dark circles under her eyes, both signs of some sort of illness. She glanced at him and away again before coughing into her hand. “Hey, Chris, Mr. MacNaught? Reception says Anthony’s car is in the garage, waiting for you.”

The young woman had performed the memory scan and despite clearing him of all current wrong-doing, he got the distinct impression she might have seen more than she should. Maybe he and Chrissy hadn’t blocked his true memories well enough, but as she’d not said anything at the time, he had nothing to base that suspicion on. If something came of it later on, so be it. For now, he wasn’t going to add that concern to the others he already had on his plate. “Great,” Chrissy said. “Coming. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ve got my phone. You’ll let Dee know if she calls in? She’s still asleep, most likely.” The assistant’s baby-blue eyes welled with moisture, and Jordan stifled an irritated growl. What was it about the old woman that inspired everyone to snivel? “You got it, sugar.” This time when Chris tried to disengage, he allowed it and trailed in her wake toward the elevator. He understood pride, and hers wouldn’t let her walk out under any steam but her own. As they moved, he shifted to his other sight to study Chrissy’s aura for the tenth time that morning since the bar squabble. It looked like it should, black and bronze. It hadn’t during the fight though, when she had shifted forms at his warning. He’d been looking in her direction and would never forget the foot to the gut he took metaphorically. For one brief moment, Chrissy’s aura had gone black as night, with no bronze at all. He still didn’t know what to make of it, but until he figured out what they, and she, were, he wouldn’t be going anywhere. **** Hours later, Jordan shifted on the seat in the limousine, taking care not to jar Chrissy from her sleep. She’d started out against the window, but not long after she fell asleep, he’d moved her to lie across the seat, with her head in his lap, using his folded up jacket as a pillow. The prior position just hadn’t looked that comfortable to him, and she hadn’t woken when he moved her. It was the first time since his newborn baby brother that he’d held a sleeping person for any great length of time. An odd feeling, but one he discovered he liked. The scenery outside the window grew familiar, and he recognized the small community she lived in as the chauffeur guided the vehicle down the street. What did not look familiar was the powder blue Civic parked in her driveway. Eyes narrowing, he

reached out with his senses and found no trace of anyone in the townhouse. Still, as experience had taught him, that meant nothing. He shook her lightly. “You need to wake up.” It took a moment after her eyes opened for comprehension to sink in, but he could tell when it did. She went a nice shade of scarlet and shoved upward, shoving hanks of hair out of her face. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” He waved toward the house. “It appears you have a visitor.” She frowned, studying the car. “It’s a rental, so not a local.” Jordan considered the distance to the front door with a pained wince. He was too old to be flitting about in the middle of the day. It wouldn’t take long for the sun to kill him any more. Chrissy had at least a couple of minutes, young as she was. “Best get in and find out who it is.” He might normally be more cautious, but Ares didn’t strike him as careless enough to have a minion leave a parked vehicle in the driveway of their intended victim, so he’d deal with whatever lay inside. Without waiting, he shifted and streamed out of the car and swiftly entered the townhouse. He reformed inside the entryway, taking care to move beyond where the sunlight would hit when Chrissy opened the door before he took note of the tall figure waiting in the doorway that led to the firstfloor office to his left. Jordan gulped, recognizing Xanthea and took a step back. Sunlight might be a kinder death. You’re the Bloody Baron, you blithering idiot. Don’t let that woman unnerve you. When the Witch smiled, it did nothing to set his mind at ease, since it looked more like a wolf baring its fangs. “Set your mind at rest, child.” He bristled at the word “child”, but bit back a retort. “We have bigger problems. Chris is coming, is she not? I need to speak her as well.” At that moment, the woman herself darted in the front door. Chrissy beamed, recognizing their visitor. “Twice in a week, how cool.” This time, Xanthea’s smile contained definite warmth. “I can’t stay long.” She stepped forward, and Jordan sidled back rather than risk contact. He wasn’t sure how much he trusted her avowal of peaceful intentions. “Go get the amethyst for me while I speak with the baron. I will take it now.”

Chrissy’s eyebrows lifted, but she shrugged and took the request in stride. “Sure. Won’t be a minute. It’s in the safe.” Xanthea folded her arms over her chest and studied him. He stared right back, surprised at her choice in attire. She resided primarily in the Middle East, and from all reports preferred the dress there. Her clothes this afternoon bore no trace of that, all black, but instead of enveloping robes and scarves she wore a corset top and pants that left no doubts that, terrifying witch she might be, she was also a woman. A very well endowed one. Jordan fidgeted under her stare, feeling for all the world like the child she called him again. A child that had been called on the carpet by his father, no less. “You had something to say?” She held out her hand, and the chain and medallion he’d tucked on a few days ago en route to Orlando snapped, stinging his neck, and sailed through the air to rest in her palm. It bore the Kerrich crest on one side and the eternal flame of the Guardians of the Phase on the other. It and the dagger were the only mementos of his mortal years he’d kept, and he had kept them both because they reminded him of his mother. “You wear this, Malcolm of House Kerrich, but do you believe in the sacred duty it entails? Are you even aware of what the Guardians are? Catriona never found the chance to tell you before you killed her.” Technically, he’d killed his father. Mother’s death had been a side-effect, though a necessary one to protect his new position as a member of the Blood. Xanthea wouldn’t appreciate the distinction, so he held his tongue and shook his head. “Interesting that you should mention the Guardians, Xanthea.” Her frosty black gaze bored into him, and she sniffed, very reminiscent of Chrissy. “Christine was bound to stumble across references to them, given her alliance with you. An alliance I failed to prevent from occurring,” she said softly. “You two should never have met. She saw you, you know, when her gift first emerged.” “She had no gifts as a mortal, or so she said,” he said weakly. It made sense. Seers became dream-walkers, so in theory Chrissy should have been a seer. But to see him? “She doesn’t remember the visions because I locked them, and her gifts, away. Unfortunately, she ran into you, did…what you two

did, and they emerged from their dormant state.” Her jaw tightened. “And now we will all pay the price, it seems.” Chrissy yelped from the direction of her dining room, and Jordan saw Xanthea’s pale skin turn bone white as her perfect posture crumpled in on itself. She rested a hand against the wall and closed her eyes. “I think you’d best explain, madam. You’re creating more mysteries than you’re solving right now.” “It’s gone!” Chrissy stomped back into the room. “It was there before I left for Vegas, I swear to you, Xan! But now, it’s, it’s just not there. Nothing else is missing, just the amethyst. Son of a bitch, I hate thieves.” He frowned, remembering her survey of the townhouse just after the attack. Could that have been the cause? But if so, why hadn’t she discovered the theft days ago? Chrissy must have seen the puzzlement and deciphered its cause. “You fainted and I got distracted by that, and then later we went to see Pierce.” “It was the last one,” Xanthea said softly, still not looking up. “Ares likely has them all, and if he’s gone to so much trouble, I fear he knows how to use them.” “Last one what?” Chrissy looked at him, and he shrugged, just as lost as she. “What’d I miss?” Xanthea took a deep breath and straightened, pushing away from the wall. “Unless we can find him, or at least one of the five stones, he’s going to rip the boundaries of reality and bring his people back from where I sent them, more than six thousand years ago.” She speared both of them with a fierce determination that sent a chill down Jordan’s spine. From the way Chrissy moved closer, her fingers brushing his, he knew she felt the weight of that look as much as he. “We have to stop Ares. This goes far beyond any petty species-war, children. If he brings them back, no human will ever sleep free and safe again.” **** Ares held out small glasses of absinthe to Loki and Matthew. His shoulder ached at the movement, but his wounds would heal soon enough. The latter couldn’t stand thanks to his cut Achilles tendon. Matthew took the glass and sniffed at it. “Thank you.”

Loki lifted one brow before settling into the last chair in the tiny kitchen. Ares eased back into his own chair. Sharp pains lanced up his leg as he did so, though. “Quite welcome. You did well, Matthew. I’m sorry about Yancy. You know what I’m going to have to do, yes?” The young man nodded, face bleak at the notion of losing his twin. Still, the twins had known what they agreed to when they volunteered for the bar assault. Matthew escaped being captured. Yancy, not so much. Pity about her. Ares didn’t like losing a woman during her prime breeding years and Yancy was almost a pure-blood. He picked up his own glass of absinthe and lifted it in toast. Loki did likewise. “You survived the Bloody Baron, young one. Very few can say that. A drink in your honor.” Hesitant, clearly surprised at the acknowledgment, given the loss of their allies, Matthew smiled. “Thank you, sir.” As the boy drank, Ares began his mental countdown. It shouldn’t take long. Loki drank, in no danger from the doctored absinthe. Time enough, however, to ascertain a few facts. “Are you registered in the States?” The twins had just arrived from their colony in Manitoba. One of Ares’s great-great-grandchildren governed the group as they hid, pretending to be dhampires and vampires. “Yes. We didn’t claim kinship though, like Nia told us to. She got us documents to come here.” “Fantastic. Nothing to lead the Bureau to you when they question your twin. Have you found employment yet?” He shook his head. “Well, at least you won’t have to worry about that, now will you?” Ares smiled politely at the boy, noting the first hint of glaze entering his gray eyes. Right on schedule. “Loki there will handle your transportation out of the city. Your service in helping me eliminate ties to the club is appreciated, Matthew. Unfortunately, we won’t be able to use the ‘Cor for a while.” He regretted losing Victor. The man had been a valued companion, but they’d taken too many risks, choosing their victims only from the club’s patrons. He’d underestimated MacKechnie’s likely strength, and she’d found the tampering he’d done to keep Victor clean of suspicion. Ares now had to be very careful. He didn’t want to lose the club as a gathering place.

Matthew blinked, the haze growing. “You never sha, er, said ….” He trailed off, mouth working though no words emerged. Ares watched silently as understanding blazed in the instant before the boy’s head slumped forward onto his chest. Unconscious, but soon dead. Loki sighed. “That couldn’t be easy for you.” Ares shook his head and sighed. “Losing any of my people is hard, my friend. But there can be no witnesses, no trails back to us. I was careless, allowing A’Jin’Cor to come to the attention of the authorities. Victor gave his life to cover up that error.” “And the four who were captured?” “They know not to answer questions, and once they have the opportunity to sleep, I will attend them.” Standing with a pained grunt, he brushed off non-existent dust and waved toward the fading Matthew. “Dispose of him as you like. Just be certain he’s not found.” Loki rolled his eyes and rose. “Never. Will you need anything further?” “Not for now. I want to see how the authorities react before making my next move.” He expected Caldwell’s resignation and public humiliation to be announced shortly. Prosecution of Caldwell for interfering in official investigations seemed unlikely, at least in the States, but it should give indication how the governments around the world would react. Loki picked up the young man, hoisting him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and headed out of Ares’s apartment using the back door. At this hour, the back entrance would be unobserved as Loki went down. As the door swung shut silently, an alarm went off in Ares’s head. The first of the arrested cohorts had just fallen asleep. He sighed wistfully. He didn’t relish the thought of killing his own, but it was necessary. They all knew going in that capture meant death. Settling into his chair, Ares picked up the jewel case from under the kitchen table and set it down. From his jacket pocket he plucked out the single, flawless sapphire Eros had delivered to him only hours earlier. He reverently opened the case, revealing the intricate mechanical workings within. Four gems already rested in their appointed slots, including Christine’s amethyst. After a century and a half, his plans and plots were about to come to fruition.

This couldn’t have happened any sooner, as human technology had needed to advance far enough to create the device, and he’d needed to position his people appropriately to ensure they alienated the vampires from the general population. Everything was in place now. Ares carefully rotated the device within the case until the empty slot faced him and then set the sapphire into position. A wave of power flowed outward from the five gems, and a faint but constant hum rang in his ears. The casing around the device would muffle the noise in the days to come. It would take several days for the magic to take hold. Until then, he would need to step very carefully. Xanthea was no doubt willing to tear the world apart to keep him from using the gems. But now with the set complete, and in place, there was nothing she could do. Ares shut the lid and moved slowly, wincing at each step, to tuck it into the cabinet above the sink. From beyond the front door to his apartment, he heard the first sounds of movement. His employees were beginning to arrive. He’d sent Loki away just in time. He closed his eyes. So much left to do and now very little time left. Kill his compatriots before the Bureau broke them. Finish alienating the vampires so the humans wouldn’t turn to them. Make certain the appointed population centers were protected from the silent killer recently unleashed. All in preparation for the conquest yet to come. If all went according to plan, the humans were enjoying their final days of freedom. He would bring Atlantis back into phase with the rest of the world, and by then the humans would be desperate for anything that might stop the disease spreading among them, a cure Atlantis was ready to provide. For a price. A heavy rap came from his front door just before Garrett pushed it open. “Hey, man. Sorry about Victor. You gonna be good to open tonight, given what you went through today?” Glad he’d tucked away the device, Ares nodded. “I’ll be down in a minute.” The were-bear gave a wry salute. “I’ll start prep. Cook’s not here yet. You take it easy. We might be down Victor, but full moon’s past now. Shouldn’t be too crazy.” “The notoriety from the arrests may draw in the curious,” he said.

“Either way, Donovan, don’t push too hard. Even you toothy types need time to heal.” Garrett grinned and closed the door behind him. Ares nodded at the now-closed door as he eased onto the couch with a grunt and brought up the dream passage. Being staked to his bar had been a bitch, but it seemed to have worked. Judging by Chris’s message a few hours ago, checking in on him, any suspicions she and the Bloody Baron had had were now laid to rest. Exactly as planned. Gathering his strength, he pushed through the metaphysical doorway of his minion and prepared the necessary spell. Just one of many casualties in the war about to be waged for the fate of the world. The End

www.torymichaels.com Other Books by Tory Michaels: Blood Rage

Evernight Publishing www.evernightpublishing.com