Chapter Seventeen
Tia set her laptop on the floral Marimekko duvet, then scowled at the guest room door. Where was Wyland? She’d expected to see him the minute her parents left, but here she was, an hour later, propped against the headboard. Alone, and working.
However, the work time had been productive. Searching through Hennepin County property records, she’d discovered that the house where Robert Johnson died had recently changed hands. Did the new owners realize that the quiet, four bedroom home they’d just bought used to be a sex dungeon? That someone had been killed there? The seller, T.S.D.C. LLC, probably hadn’t revealed those pesky little facts to the broker, much less the buyer.
A limited liability corporation; it just figured. It would take time, and serious effort, to find the sentient being hiding behind the acronym, but it could be done. It would be done, by her. But not today, because her concentration was crap.
Where was Wyland? And what had possessed her to kiss him—like that—in front of her parents?
“What the hell am I doing?” she mumbled. She reached for the pile of mail at the foot of the bed, mindlessly separating the bills from the solicitations, sorting them into stacks. The conversation she’d had with her parents—her revelation that, yes, she was sexually involved with Wyland, the Vampire Second—had been difficult, primarily because she hadn’t been able to define the relationship beyond that. Though she hadn’t shared blood with her parents in years and wasn’t privy to their mental conversation, their facial expressions had been easy to read. Her mother, usually the more excitable parent, had studied her for long, long seconds, finally giving her a subtle, woman-to-woman nod that conveyed approval, confidence, and an appreciation of her daughter’s taste in men. “Back off, Alex,” she’d said. “Tia’s affairs are her business.”
“Sweet bleeding universe, Diana, we’re not talking about a chef, or a novelist, or some random guitar player. She’s sleeping with the Vampire Second.”
“And the problem is…?”
Her father stared at her. “It’s a huge freaking deal.”
“Alexander, will you listen to yourself?” her mother scoffed. “You sound like a tool of the patriarchy.”
Her father recoiled, then took a deep breath—a conscious technique he used to process strong emotions. He experienced them, acknowledged them, and then watched them pass by, freeing him to think critically. “Diana, this isn’t about Tia having a sex life. It’s about who she’s having that sex life with.”
Her own temper spiked. “What’s wrong with Wyland?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He’s a fine leader—probably one for the history books—and from what I’ve seen, he’s a fine man. But Tia, he’s so…constrained, so controlled.”
“He has to be.”
“Yes, he has to be. But you don’t. You…aren’t.”
“I’m not what?” It wasn’t very often her parents talked about her in terms of what she wasn’t.
Reassurance and love—her father’s faerie empathy—wrapped around her like a soft cashmere blanket. “You’re not constrained and controlled. He’s older, colder, and very powerful. He’s so…different from the men you’ve been involved with in the past.”
“Once you get to know him, he’s anything but cold.”
“Okay.” Her father nodded. “But given his commitments and responsibilities, how can you possibly get what you need out of this relationship?”
What did she need out of this relationship? It was a question worth asking, and an uncomfortable one at that. Somewhere along the way, her involvement with Wyland had morphed into something more than simple physical attraction, or scratching a sexual itch.
She was falling in love with him.
“Tia, I’d hate to see your passion, your spark, extinguished in any way. Stifled by protocol.”
If her father only knew how many f-bombs she’d heard some of their Council members drop.
“Wyland’s a fine leader, but…as my daughter’s lover?” He looked at her mother again. “Diana, I can’t believe you’re not concerned about this.”
“Tia has a good head on her shoulders. She doesn’t need our permission to share her body, mind, or heart with whomever she pleases.”
“But can he share his heart in return?”
And that was the crux of the matter. Tia sighed, continuing to sort the mail on auto-pilot. In bed, she and Wyland were a perfect match, but…what was the phrase her father had used? A leader for the history books? Did she have it in her to be the partner, to be the mate, of a historic man? “Talk about putting the cart before the— Whoa.” She drew herself upright, studying the envelope at the top of the pile. White, business-sized, no return address, and mailed from a busy downtown Minneapolis zip code, it was utterly generic, right down to the vaguely patriotic red, white, and blue adhesive stamp. “I suppose it was my turn.” Steeling herself, she carefully opened the envelope, withdrew the sheet of paper, and read. “Yep.” Such ugly words, about how her father should never have been born. About how she should never have been born. About how her mother should be punished for tainting her family’s pristine bloodline. “Misogynist pig with a eugenics fixation, check and check.” She looked at the envelope again, then froze.
It was addressed to her, using Vamp Central’s mailing address.
The letter-writer knew she was here.
Dread galloped into her system. She closed her eyes and waited as her father had taught her, letting the panic run wild and free, watching it buck and whinny and neigh until it finally tired itself out.
After a deep breath in and out, she focused on the letter again, analyzing the language. The letter-writer seemed to know a great deal about her ‘rotted’ family tree, but also claimed to have seen her and Wyland in ‘a compromising position.’ Compromising position or not, who’d even seen them together?
Soft footsteps outside her door. A weighty pause, then a knock. Finally. As she set the letter aside, anticipation crackled like heat lightning. “Come in.”
The door swung open on silent hinges. Though Wyland’s hair was still lashed back in that unforgiving ponytail, he’d removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and taken off his shoes. The fact that he’d come to her with his armor half-removed made her soften. Simmer.
Her father was right about one thing. After years of drooling over lovers wearing jeans, chef’s whites, and stage leathers, finding a tailored suit sexy was definitely a change. “Hey.”
“Hello.” Wyland didn’t come into the room, or close the door behind him. Instead, he leaned against the door jamb, looking at her with carefully banked heat. A crack in the window shade cast a filtered, safe sunbeam across his legs.
Sunlight and shadows. The calm before the storm.
“How did it go with your parents?” he asked.
“Well enough. Mom called Dad a tool of the patriarchy, and that doesn’t happen every day.”
His lips twitched. “I imagine not. Why did she call him that?”
“Because he’s worried about us sleeping together.”
He stared at her. “You described our relationship using those words?”
“Yeah.”
“Your parents think this—” he gestured to the air between them “—is merely a sexual relationship?” He stalked into the room, stopping when he reached the bed. “No wonder Alexander looked like he wanted to gut me when they left.”
Her sexual circuits zapped to life. Annoyance looked…really, really good on him. “Of course it’s not merely sexual,” she said, shrugging. “We…enjoy each other’s company.”
“What?”
His single, snapped word sent a frisson of excitement up her spine. Awareness crackled and popped between them like a downed electrical wire. “We enjoy each other’s company,” she repeated mildly. “Don’t we?”
Tell me it’s more. I dare you to tell me it’s more.
His expression was positively thunderous. The air felt heavy and charged, like she’d get a shock if she touched it.
“Tia.”
“Hmm?’
“This isn’t just about sex.” He whipped the bed covers back, exposing her camisole, panties, and the gooseflesh sheeting her skin. “And you’re in the wrong bed.”
When he extended his hand, she saw fresh punctures on his wrist. He’d been feeding Valerian—another reminder that Wyland had responsibilities beyond her petty need for validation.
She stared up at him, into his seething gaze. Yesterday, she’d accused him of revealing nothing, of being locked down tight. Today, something had changed. He was a maelstrom, letting her feel every unfiltered emotion as it battered him. Fear, confusion, and anger were all tangled up with want, need, desire, lust. Joy and light, dark and dread…and there, hidden in the center, something soft and precious pulsed.
And she wanted it.
She clasped his hand and stood, bringing her body against his. Blessed warmth leached into her; his familiar scent wafted into her nostrils.
He reached for her hip with his free hand, but hesitated. “What doesn’t hurt? I’m afraid to touch you.”
Her muscles were screaming despite Thane’s magic liniment, but need was screaming even louder. She needed him, needed his touch. “I won’t break,” she whispered.
He lifted their clasped hands to his mouth, softly kissing her knuckles, then skimmed his palm against her cheek—lightly, so lightly. “Tia…” So much need, so much desperation, embedded in one word. So much helpless anger—anger at himself, that he hadn’t prevented her from being injured in the first place.
That, she couldn’t allow. “Touch me,” she invited, pressing a kiss to his palm. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she lifted her lips to his. “Please touch me.”
He groaned against her mouth, then obeyed, claiming her lips in a kiss so soft and succulent, a tasting so careful and reverent, that her throat tightened. Clasping his head, she pulled harder, tilting her head to get deeper, to sample more of his decadent, elemental flavor—
She hissed in pain as their noses bumped together.
“Damn. Are you okay?”
She nodded, eyes watering. “Yeah. Just smarts a little.” Okay, it smarted a lot, but she didn’t want Wyland see her as a patient, not right now. Taking his hand, she started walking toward the door. “And you’re right, this is the wrong bed.” She slanted him a look he couldn’t possibly misinterpret. “I want to be in yours.”
The floor suddenly tilted as he scooped her up in his arms. Cradling her against his chest, he strode into the hallway, past Valerian and Thane’s closed sitting room door, and into his room, closing the door behind them with a nudge of his shoulder. His blinds were closed, casting the room in shadow, but the Tiffany lamp on his bedside table threw colorful shards of light across his turned-down sheets.
He set her down on the bed, bundling her under the blankets. A muscle jumped at his jawline, but his expression was too controlled for comfort.
Not for long.
She shamelessly watched as he undressed, draping his clothes over the footboard. Tie, belt, then socks. Shirt, pants, then T-shirt. Still wearing his boxer briefs, he slipped between the sheets, absently reaching for the elastic band holding his ponytail in place. With a tug and a shake, his hair tumbled loose.
It was all she could do to keep her tongue in her mouth. “Why are you still wearing your underwear?”
“To remind myself that you’re in no condition to make love right now.” His voice was rough, but the touch of his fingers against her cheek was soft and reverent.
Make love. His choice of words was just that—a choice, not a slip of the tongue. Something inside her melted, heated. She wanted to make love, too—right now. She wanted to connect with him, in the most primal possible way. When he levered himself up, reaching across her body to turn off the lamp, she strummed her hands over the hard planes of his chest, down his sensitive sides. Clutched a handful of his cotton-covered butt, then shifted so he lay between her legs.
“Tia…” he groaned, dropping his arm and gazing down at her. “I don’t want to hurt you..”
“I’m fine, Wyland. And I want you so much.”
Soft fingers stroked her cheekbone. “You’re so bruised.”
Damn it, she should have let him turn off the light. “I wouldn’t want to look at me, either.”
Discipline and self-denial carved his expression into stark, taut planes, but his gaze was wild and turbulent, and his erection pulsed against her hot, slick core. “How you look isn’t the problem.”
Where was the man who’d frozen her out yesterday? Today, he’d opened the spigot full-bore, and emotions gushed from him like water from a fire hose. She wanted to wallow in them, in him. Swallow them up. “Wyland, you’re an anatomy expert.” Relaxing back against the pillow, she didn’t hide her hunger. “Surely you can find a place to kiss me—” she dragged his hand to her panties “—where I’m not bruised.”
Before she quite realized what was happening, he pushed himself upright, removed her camisole and panties, and laid her back against the pillow again. Resting on his haunches between her legs, he stripped off his T-shirt, then his underwear.
His fangs, his flexing muscles, the hungry jut of his penis…the position was pure alpha masculinity, and his eyes gleamed with diabolical sexual intent. Her skin felt too tight. She was going to explode if she didn’t get some relief. She reached for him, but he pressed her back against the pillows. “Lie back,” he murmured. “Let me kiss you.”
She spread her legs wider.
A knowing, dark chuckle. “So much for romance.”
“I don’t need romance, not tonight.”
“What do you need?”
Dratted man. Wasn’t it perfectly obvious? Locking gazes with him, she flooded his mind with images: his shoulders, between her thighs. His hair, brushing her breasts and stomach. His fingers, spreading her wide. His tongue, flicking at her folds until she—
“You’re killing me,” he gritted.
“Same goes.” What in the world was he waiting for? Lifting her hand, she trailed her fingertips over her breasts and torso, meandering down the curve of her stomach, down, down…
She touched herself.
Fangs flashing, he stared at her pussy as if cataloging her anatomy for future reference. As if analyzing which touch made her shiver versus shake versus shudder. Finally, with a tortured groan, he shouldered between her legs, nudging her hand aside.
She waited expectantly, but the touch of his tongue didn’t come. Instead, he inhaled, deeply and luxuriantly, pulling her scent into his lungs. Blunt, primal lust. Utterly transcendent pleasure. Both danced into her mind, swirling with her bliss. He exhaled, bathing her flesh in warm, moist air. Her core gave a violent clench, and her nipples drew painfully tight.
From his breath.
At this rate, she was going to come before he even touched her— “Aah!” The unexpected touch of his tongue, right where she needed it most, almost made her levitate. She lifted her hips, pressing against him, seeking, writhing against his mouth. “More...” she gasped, clutching his hair.
He lifted his head, searing her with his hot, blue gaze. One side of his mouth kicked up in a wicked grin. Then, he peeled her outer lips back with his thumbs and gave her the most erotic kiss she’d ever experienced, licking, sucking, and laving her flesh with hungry swipes of his tongue. She clutched at his hair, pushing it aside so she could watch him explore her body. Watch him learn, over long, delicious minutes, exactly which touches made her sigh, made her squeal.
“Wyland…”
His pulse galloped in response.
Aah, he liked it when she said his name. “This sexual mind meld thing is…fun.” His answering hum vibrated against her violently aroused flesh. “Holy shit,” she gasped.
He smiled against her folds, a diabolical caress.
When her nails bit into his shoulders, he grunted with pleasure. So she did it again.
A groan this time. “Harder,” he whispered against her.
When she complied, his fingertips dug into her thighs. She’d have new bruises tomorrow, but she gloried in it. All signs of the courtly, careful gentleman were gone.
He rimmed her opening with the tip of his tongue, then made a teasing push inside. The knot between her legs twisted, tightened. She held her breath, held herself poised, but the plunge she craved didn’t come. “Wyland...” she strangled out.
Propping himself up on an elbow, he looked at her.
Her stomach gave a lazy flip. His face was drawn into stark planes, his eyes slumberous with need. His hair was a messy tumble, and his mouth glistened from her pussy. No, this was no effete gentleman. This man could fulfill every fantasy, every filthy desire, and inspire her to think of more. “Why are you—”
“Drink from me,” he murmured. Extending his free arm, he brought his wrist to her lips. “Drink from me while I make you come.”
Her pulse beat a furious tattoo. This was no sexual power play; his silent yearning for a more intimate connection sang between them. Yes, something had changed with him, and she liked it. “If you drink from me, too.”
“We need to wait until you’re stronger.”
“Seriously? I feel great.”
“You need your blood to heal.” Self-disgust flicked over his face. “Bloody hell, I should be shot for even starting this.”
“You didn’t. I did.” Grasping his arm, she kissed his inner wrist. Did she dare ask? “I want to drink from your neck.” He didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at her pussy, as if considering how he’d make her come once he moved his head out from between her thighs. Jesus. “You have hands—very talented ones, at that. Come up here where I can reach you.”
“Demands, demands.” Rising onto his hands and knees, he crawled to the head of the bed like a slinky panther, sliding one arm under her neck and draping the other over her breast as he lay beside her. “Nothing’s ever easy with you, is it?”
The teasing was unexpected. Turning toward him, she curled up against his warmth like a cat in a sunbeam. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The position gave her easy access to his neck, and inches from her hand, his hard cock stirred under the soft, white cotton. Yes, this position would do nicely. “Admit it—you’d be bored out your gourd with easy.” She cupped his cock. His hips arched against her hand, and he gave a groan that was music to her ears. “Hard can be very, very nice.”
“Tia…” He looked as if he was being tortured, stretched out on a rack, but he didn’t move her hand. Instead, he shifted his hair aside.
Offering her his neck.
“Mmm.” She dipped her nose into the shallow canyon behind his collarbone, where his scent pooled and deepened, then nuzzled her way up the taut neck tendon, pausing at his throbbing, pulsing vein. As she suckled against his skin, preparing it for her bite, a purring groan rumbled in his chest, vibrating into her body. He slid his hand between her legs, combing through her curls, giving her clit a glancing caress as he stroked through her slick folds. He teased her opening.
Nudged inside.
She plunged, driving her fangs deep into his flesh.
The first surge of power made her eyes roll back in her head, made bloodlust surge to the fore. With a greedy groan, she adjusted the seal of her lips against his skin, clutching at his hair to pull him closer. His pure blood was delicious, a dark metallic sting, but his emotions…oh, gawd, his frenzied need crashed and churned, tossing her like a white water rapids. She sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, caressing his cock as she frantically gulped him down.
His clever fingers delved and plundered, stroked and swirled. All too soon, her orgasm loomed. She gasped as she felt its glittering, inexorable approach.
“Tia.” His voice sounded dragged from the depths. His hips were moving in urgent, spasmodic jerks. “Come with me.”
Ecstasy, carnality, eroticism…an urgent, helpless yearning…pulses of promise, of possibility…eddying and swirling, tugging her along.
“Tia…” he strangled out, shuddering.
A warm flood of release against her hand.
She broke apart in his arms. Flew over the edge.
Let the undertow pull her under.
When Wyland woke up, she was gone.
He glanced over to the bedside table, where the digital clock mocked him with a steady red glare. “Damn.” He’d been asleep for over twelve hours, the deepest and longest stretch of sleep he’d gotten in recent memory.
Napping like an old man. No doubt Tia had been awake for hours.
A peal of laugher from across the hall let him know Tia’s whereabouts. He threw the blankets back, sat up, and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. Thane had probably fed Valerian already, but he should check.
A throb of reassurance from Valerian: I’m fine.
Is Tia with you?
Yes. We’re watching TV. Take your time.
Apparently he wasn’t needed right now.
There was a vague, scolding throb from Tia. Valerian’s amusement immediately followed. She’s annoyed that she can’t hear our conversation.
But having shared blood with both of them, she could feel it. This triangulation between him, Val, and Tia could become damn uncomfortable.
I apologized on your behalf.
Thank you. He stared at his discarded underwear, lying on the carpet. Her body’s plush clutch, its hungry rhythmic clench against his fingers as she climaxed, was seared into his brain. Never had spending outside a woman’s body satisfied him so much.
A pulse of naughty amusement slid into his mind from across the hall.
He sent her the mental equivalent of a wink, then gently but firmly severed the bond. Tia might be comfortable with the always-on, wide-open-to-everyone connection Thane had warned him she favored, but he was not—and even if he wasn’t by nature a very private man, his position as the Second precluded such rash behavior. If he and Tia were to share any sort of future together, she needed to learn how to block—effectively, ruthlessly, and often. If anyone could train Tia how to do so, it was Thane, the Vampire First’s bondmate.
He pushed to his feet, dropped the underwear in the hamper, and headed for the shower, mentally sorting through his workday as he washed. He didn’t have office hours tonight, and the resident could handle rounds. Legal paperwork, phone calls to return, a Council meeting for which he should prepare...all of which he could do here at home. After showering and dressing, he headed across the hall to check in on Val and Tia.
Never before had crossing the hall to Val’s sitting room caused his stomach to turn such lazy, erotic backflips—and never before had such a strong chemical scent assaulted him. “Bloody hell.” He picked up speed, entered the room where Tia and Val were watching TV, and quickly discovered the odor’s source: Tia held a small, red bottle in one hand, and a tiny brush in the other, painting her toenails. On the table closest to her was an open bottle of remover or solvent, several sharp little tools, three turquoise-stained cotton balls, and a big mug of coffee. Her phone lay out of spilling range, but still within reach.
As he stared at the exotic feminine mess, one of the three contestants on the television screen leaned over to spin a colorful horizontal wheel, yelling, “Come on, big money!” while everyone else clapped. A slim blonde woman wearing an evening gown stood next to a wall of white, illuminated rectangles.
“Big money!” Val called.
Tia grinned down at her toes.
Val looked hale and hearty, his skin a ruddy pink against the collar of his burgundy velvet smoking jacket. If Wyland was a gambling man, he’d bet everything that he and Tia hadn’t been the only lovers to share body and blood since they’d all seen each other last.
“Hi, there.” Tia had noticed him. Somehow, her casual greeting sounded significant, intimate—or maybe it was the way she skimmed his body, like she could see right through his clothes.
“Hello.” For some reason, Val was sitting in the club chair instead of his favorite place on the couch. Tia was curled up on the couch’s far right cushion, leaving Val’s seat open.
For him.
“Wyland, hello!” Val waved toward the couch. “Please. Join us.”
After a pause, he sat in Val’s place, his gaze snagging on Tia’s legs. She wore a pair of those clingy black workout pants she seemed to live in, and seven of her ten toenails were painted a shiny, carnal red. His pulse gave a kick, but he ignored it. He could keep his hands to himself in front of Val—not that Val, who’d led centuries of pagan rites, would be the least bit shocked by anything he might imagine.
Or anything he might do.
Val’s silent laughter echoed in his head.
Tia and Val chatted, watching the game and discussing the simple word puzzles. Val, much to his relief, solved many of the puzzles more quickly than the contestants did, though he suspected Tia purposely let Val shout the answers out first. “What’s this show called?” As a cognitive exercise, it was simple but effective.
“Wheel of Fortune.” Tia closed the bottle with quick twists of her wrist, set it on the table, and, after a slight hesitation, took his hand.
Lifting their joined hands to his lips, he kissed her knuckles. Her sunny pleasure slipped into him, but a tiny shadow remained. Apparently he still had some making up to do.
Ya think? Val thought.
Val, these things take time.
So says the man who hasn’t taken a lover in a century, Val scoffed. Don’t assume you have all the time in the world, son. “Tia, were you able to reschedule your appointment with the Senator?” Val asked. “Your face looks much better today.”
Val was right; the dark half-moons under her eyes had definitely faded.
“We’re meeting next month,” Tia said, “and when we do, I’d really like Jane to join us.” She fiddled with her thumbnail. “I’m going to mention it tomorrow when I give her a ride to a job interview. Give her some time to mull it over. She’s…twitchy.”
“Understandably so,” Val said. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Tia, behind the wheel? No bloody way. “I’d prefer you wait a bit before you drive,” he said as mildly as he could manage.
“Why?”
“Tia, you were knocked unconscious.” Not that her possibly concussed state had prevented her from making him come harder than he ever had in his life. “And your car’s in the shop.” Instead of simply replacing the broken passenger window, he’d asked the mechanic to replace every window with those providing UV protection.
“I’d planned to ask if I could use one of the SUVs.”
“Of course you may, but—” neutral, neutral “—in my medical opinion, driving at this early point in your recovery puts your safety, and the safety of others, at risk. How about using a driver along with the SUV?” A driver who was also a trained bodyguard, because she damn well wasn’t going to leave the house without one.
“Bubonic Plague!” Val suddenly exclaimed.
“What?”
Val pointed at the television. “The answer to the puzzle. It’s Bubonic Plague.”
Tia studied the puzzle. “So it is.”
Val folded his hands over his stomach. “Speaking of which, have you moved Sigurd’s trunk to the Archives yet?”
Apparently Val’s thoughts were skipping rocks again.
“What do you mean, Val?” Tia asked.
“Sigurd’s trunk. It’s down in the catacombs.”
Tia straightened from her comfortable slump. She reached for the phone sitting next to the nail polish bottle, then turned on the voice recorder.
Bloody hell, he knew exactly which trunk Val was talking about. Over a century ago, when they’d moved into the house, he and Thane had carried the simple wooden box deep into the caverns, with Val nipping at their heels, urging, “Take care, take great care…” They’d set the trunk against the far back wall, then had gone upstairs to retrieve the next item.
Thinking nothing of it, because there were so many items to move.
“What catacombs?” Tia asked.
“When we built the house in the early 1900s, we had to consider requirements beyond mere shelter,” Val explained. “We needed a place to store our collected history, and the property next door—the Archives—wasn’t yet ours. The cave system we dug under the house was the solution.”
“Caves under the house? How cool.”
Cool? Moving the artifacts had taken countless hours of hot, sweaty effort.
“Sigurd had been dead for months when I found him.”
Wyland reeled at the abrupt change of subject, at the pain in Val’s voice.
“I’d been in Italy on business, and while traveling home I saw a brutal scourge ravaging the land, infecting the old and young, the hale and hearty, the rich and the poor,” Val said. “The Black Death—and being blood drinkers, vampires were particularly hard hit. Those who drank from the sick died themselves. As healthy donors became fewer and farther between, many vampires starved, or succumbed to bloodlust.”
“How did you survive?” Tia asked.
“I drank from uninfected animals, mainly from deer. By avoiding the main traveling routes, I managed to find a meager supply of untainted donor blood. But when I arrived home…” Val paused, swallowing hard. “When I arrived home, our village was empty. Silent. Everyone was…gone. Sigurd had dug a pit and burned all the bodies.”
“And Sigurd?” Tia asked softly. Empathy poured from her like water over a wound.
“I found him in our hut, lying on his pallet. Dead, of course. Black boils were still visible on his skin, and his journal lay open next to him.” A tear spilled, rolling down his cheek. “The…the knife he’d used to slit his own throat was still in his hand.”
Wyland wasn’t surprised that Sigurd, ill and in extremis, had committed suicide rather than succumb to bloodlust. It was a vampire’s final act of control over his own destiny.
Tia rose from the couch, knelt on the floor in front of Val, and took his gnarled hands. “I’m so sorry.”
Val wiped his wet cheek. “It happened a long time ago, but thank you, my dear.” Val looked down at her, then over to him. “I’ve forgotten more than I remember, but his journals might provide some of the answers you seek.”
Wyland blinked. “You have his journals?”
“Of course I do. His journals, his pens and tools, and more. Everything the horse and I could carry.”
Sigurd’s journals, written in his own hand, downstairs all this time. Energy buzzed through him. After being stored in a battered trunk for nearly seven hundred years, were the pages still intact? Was the writing still legible? What had Sigurd used as paper and ink?
Had there been other Firsts before him?
Bloody hell.
“Could you and Tia bring the trunk upstairs for me?” Val asked.
“Up here? Why?” The trunk contained precious historical artifacts. Wyland wanted to assess their condition, and start necessary preservation work immediately.
“I’d like…” Val cleared his throat. “I’d like to see his things again.” One last time.
His stomach lurched. Val, you have plenty of time—
“Of course we will.” Tia scrambled to her feet, squeezing Val’s hands. “We’ll bring the trunk upstairs for you, right now.”
He rose more slowly. “Will we?”
“Oh, stop with the eyebrow already. Of course we will.” Turning off her voice recording, she looked down at Val. “Would you like to come with us?”
Val patted the arms of his chair. “These old bones are happy right here.” Thane suddenly appeared at the sitting room door, carrying Val’s breakfast tray. They held a silent conversation and shared a private, bittersweet smile. “Thane will keep me company while the two of you go to the caverns.”
He hesitated. How would Val react to seeing Sigurd’s belongings again?
“Go,” Thane urged, shooing them toward the door as he set the tray on the table closest to Val. Val’s fine, and look how excited Tia is.
She was practically dancing, shifting from foot to foot.
Three against one; he was on the losing end of this argument. “You’ll want to put some shoes on,” he told Tia. “And maybe a jacket.”
Grinning, she bent down to kiss Val’s papery cheek. “We’ll be back soon.” As she rose, she snitched a piece of bacon from Val’s plate, then walked toward the door, glancing at him. “I’ll meet you in the hallway.”
He followed her out. While Tia was in the guest room retrieving footwear, he went to his bedroom and found the flashlight he kept for emergencies. When he went back out to the hall, Tia was waiting, wearing a zip-up sweatshirt and those horrid black flip-flops with the sparkles on them. “Do you not own real shoes?”
“My toenails are wet.”
“Heaven forbid you ruin a pedicure.”
“Hey, I’d ruin the shoes, too.” She started walking toward the stairway with an annoying snap-snap-snap, leaving him to follow. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. “Where, exactly, are we going?”
“The basement.”
“Oh, down by the pool?”
Nodding, he led the way to the basement door. “The entrance to the catacombs is down here.” She followed him down the stairs, her noisy shoes telegraphing every footfall. At the bottom of the stairwell, he went to the south wall, to the shelving unit holding stacks of fluffy, folded towels. “Stand back.” Reaching behind it, he pressed the hidden latch.
The shelving unit swung away from the wall on silent hinges, revealing a shadowy opening.
“Oh, awesome!”
“Indeed.” Reaching into the stale air, he tugged the pull chain of the nearest of many light bulbs hanging suspended from the ceiling. Flicking on his flashlight, he shone it ahead, past the built-in wine racks to the next bulb, a hundred feet ahead. “Follow me.”
She obeyed, but not for long. What he’d envisioned as a brisk walk to the end of the cavern didn’t happen, because Tia had questions, so many questions: About the initial excavation process. About the ‘quaint’ 1930s-era electrical system. About Valerian’s wine collection, and about Wyland’s work to transfer items stored in the catacombs to the Archives next door. And she touched everything—the walls, the light bulb chains, the floor—sniffing with her eyes closed, as if imprinting herself with scent.
“This is amazing,” she said, stroking the wall’s rough surface with her fingertips. “I wish I hadn’t left my phone upstairs.”
If she kept stopping to explore, they’d never get to the end of the passage. He took her hand. “Come on.”
Finally, twelve light bulbs later, they reached the last storage room dug from the rock. Several pieces of furniture rested under protective sheets, and boxes sat neatly stacked, their contents waiting to be rediscovered. The battered wooden trunk sat right where he remembered, against the back wall, out of the light bulb’s weak reach. He shone the flashlight’s tight halogen beam against the trunk. “There it is.”
“We walked south, right?” Instead of rushing to the trunk, she trailed her fingertips over the slats of a rough wooden box. “Toward the Archives?”
He nodded.
“We must be almost halfway there,” she mused. “Have you ever thought about connecting the two buildings?”
“Yes, but it’s not a priority right now.” He watched her walk toward the back wall, into the shadows. “Thane and I will revisit the idea when we update the electrical system.” Which, given its Edison-era vintage, should probably be done sooner rather than later, unless they wanted a damn fire on their hands. “I haven’t been down here in about a year,” he said, following her.
“When Val came down with pneumonia?”
“Yes.”
Tia shook her head in wonder. “Imagine living during the Black Death. Imagine surviving it.” She suddenly grinned, her teeth flashing in the dim light. “Imagine you, having to record for posterity that the Vampire First remembered where Sigurd’s trunk was while watching Wheel of Fortune.”
Bloody hell, she was right.
Tia crouched beside the trunk, touched the worn wood. Tested its size by stretching her arms out to the side. When she lowered her head to sniff the wood, he almost yanked her back. There was no possible way that active Yersinia pestis remained, but who knew what kinds of dusts and bacteria lurked in the— “Tia, don’t!”
Too late. She’d already opened the trunk. Peering inside, she covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh my stars.”
“Back away,” he ordered, pulling at her shoulders. “Don’t breathe. Don’t touch anything.”
She shrugged him off. “I won’t touch anything without wearing gloves.”
“I’m more concerned about how your immune system might react to ancient spores and bacteria.”
She paused, then gave a fatalistic shrug. “If there’s damage, it’s already done, so let’s take a look at what’s in this trunk.” She smiled winningly. “If I get sick, I know a really kick-ass doctor.”
“I’m glad you’re so confident of my abilities.”
“Oh, you thought I meant you?” she teased, winking before peering into the trunk again. “Oh, Wyland. Look at this….”
He leaned over her shoulder, noting the heavy robes, the coarsely-woven linens…and there, toward the back, were three thick, bound journals.
A treasure beyond price.
Adrenaline surged. If anything might provide some information about Sigurd and the Old Ways, it would be these manuscripts, written in the man’s own hand.
“Wyland?”
“Hmm?”
She pointed toward the back. “Is that…is that a bone?”
He saw a pale sliver of color. “Perhaps.” He aimed the flashlight into the shadowy corner, then used it to nudge the swaddling fabric aside.
Shock speared through him.
It was a skull.