Chapter Two
Turning his back on the noisy group behind him, Dominic Reese hunkered down at the bar, nodding his thanks to the woman who’d delivered his beer.
What a colossal waste of time. In the absence of an agenda, or any concrete marching orders, GPL members under age twenty-five no longer even pretended their monthly meeting was anything but a party, or a way to hook up. Tonight, they’d met at The Ivy, a swanky hotel in downtown Minneapolis. There were hundreds of rooms, hundreds of beds, right upstairs—not that he’d waste his money renting one just to have sex. Nope. If he rented a hotel room, he’d want the place all to himself. He’d order some food someone else had cooked, get some uninterrupted sleep, and then take a long, hot shower without his sister knocking on the bathroom door, yelling at him to hurry up.
But with his father flat on his back in a hospital bed, unable to move, Dom’s personal wants and needs were way down on the priority list.
A loud bray of laughter assaulted his eardrums. He’d only come to tonight’s event because his father, a Genetic Purity League elder, had insisted. “It’s important our family is represented,” he’d said, glaring at the nurses who’d come in to adjust his orthopedic bed, flipping his body face-up and face-down on a strict schedule to reduce bedsores.
Dom bit back a frustrated sigh. Three more years would have to pass before he’d be allowed to attend the adult GPL meeting, where the real work occurred. But earlier that day, his dad had surprised him, revealing his life’s work: maintaining a secret genealogy database that spanned their culture, and went back generations. His father had described it as being Debrett’s Peerage for paranormals—whatever the hell that was—and then had given him the access codes.
“Dad, GPL meetings are such a waste of time,” he’d said. He was itching to log on, to explore the database.
“Dom, get away from the hospital for a night. Have a beer, kiss a pretty girl.” A pause. “And wait for further instructions.”
“Instructions for what?”
His father hadn’t responded. The hopeless expression he’d tried to hide as Dom left his hospital room was a kick to the gut.
He lifted the glass of dark ale and took two large swallows. Nearby, someone laughed too loudly. The clink of beer bottles and wine glasses, the posturing, the flirty hair flipping, the cloying scent of too many people in too small a space wearing too much cologne… He didn’t belong here anymore. Tomorrow night he’d be able to tell his father that he’d attended the meeting. That he’d had a beer. But that he’d enjoyed himself? Not so much.
He rubbed his tired eyes. Maybe an age exception could be made. Maybe he could take his father’s place at the Elder’s meeting, just until he recovered.
If he recovered.
Dom shoved the insidious thought aside. He felt like he’d aged a decade in the last month, and if he felt that way, his mother surely felt worse. Since his father’s accident, she’d pretty much spent every waking hour at the hospital. Dom had finally returned to work—his mother had insisted—but Mom needed his support, and Hannah, no matter how big a pain in his ass, needed to be fed, needed help with homework, needed rides to school and to soccer practice. The house had to be cleaned, the lawn mowed, and they needed groceries and clean clothes. A rogue yawn escaped.
Damn Tia Quinn for moving so damn far away.
“Dominic?”
“Hi, Mila.” Mila Stanton, only child of purebred vampires Lyudmila and Stanton, was an odd duck—pretty enough, but odd. Her father was a GPL Elder, but Dom had no clue whether Mila shared the organization’s political goals. She came to meetings, but didn’t flirt, drink alcohol, or troll for sex. Instead, she worked the room like a very efficient butterfly, chatting and laughing as she flitted from group to group. She usually attended meetings on her way to her job at the hospital, and if her clothes were anything to go by, the same was true tonight. The gray dress pants, flat black shoes, white blouse, and long-sleeved black sweater were hardly hook-up bait. The purple scarf wrapped around her neck provided the only flash of color.
A sweater, in this heat? Yeah, she was odd.
They kissed each other’s cheeks in the traditional greeting, then she sat on the bar stool next to his without asking whether he wanted company. “How are you?” she asked.
“Fine.” One thing he’d learned since his dad’s accident was that very few who asked that question actually wanted a truthful answer. “Are you on your way to work?” Given how rich her family was, he was impressed that she did—work, that is. Mila Stanton’s family could buy this hotel hundreds of times over.
“Yes, I’m going to work from here.” A pause. “How is your father doing?”
Concern shone from her eyes, which were a deep, thundercloud gray. Maybe Mila was one of the exceptions.
“I saw a picture of the car after the accident,” she added. “It’s amazing he survived. C4 spinal injury, right?”
He nodded. So many lives forever changed because another driver thought he could thumb through his email and drive a car simultaneously. “He’s…” How could he explain? His father could have a lucid conversation, could breathe without assistance, but he couldn’t move his limbs, couldn’t control his bladder and bowels, and couldn’t digest food. Despite the family’s initial high hopes, he wasn’t getting better. Dom swallowed, hard. What could he say about his father’s condition that would preserve what little dignity he had left?
Mila touched his bare forearm. “I’m glad he’s stable enough that you could be here,” she said softly. “Please give him and your mother my best.”
“Thanks. Damn, your fingers are like icicles.” Without thinking, he covered her chilly hand with his. Her eyes widened in surprise—her gaze flew to his—but she didn’t move her hand away.
What the hell…?
Noise receded into the background as they considered each other. He couldn’t mistake the spark of attraction she felt—he could smell it, thanks to his werewolf nose—but she was clearly wondering what, if anything, to do about it.
Despite the nondescript clothes, she really was beautiful—willowy, with shoulder-length black hair, imperious eyebrows, and plush pink lips against the whitest skin he’d ever seen in the middle of summer. She reminded him of the actress Rooney Mara, or a prima ballerina. The Queen of Snows, reigning over her subjects with intelligence, care, and concern. When she flexed her fingers, he felt the touch below his belt. He shifted against the barstool, levering his body toward hers.
Why hadn’t he noticed her before?
She quickly withdrew her hand, sat up straight, and turned to face the bar. “I really should get going.”
“Already?” He gestured to the almost empty glass she’d brought with her. “Can I get you another drink?”
She glanced at her watch, then back at him.
What could he say to keep her there? “I’d really appreciate the company.”
“Okay, a quick Diet Coke,” she finally said. “I’m due at work soon.”
He gestured to the bartender, ordering them both fresh drinks. “You work at the hospital, right?”
She nodded. “I’m a systems analyst.”
“Huh?”
Her self-deprecating laugh twinkled over him. “I work with patient data at Memorial Hospital. Utterly invisible and boring, until there’s a problem with either storing it, or accessing it. And you work at Woolf Den Fitness?” She gave his body an approving up-and-down glance. “You look like you work out.”
“Yes to both.” She’d noticed his body. “I’m the assistant manager—one of them, anyway. Free use of the facilities is one of the job perks.” Not that he’d had time to work out lately.
She looked around. Bit her lip. “Can I admit something horrible?”
Curiosity thrummed through him. “Of course.” He brought his head a couple of inches closer to hers. Lowered his voice. “Your secrets are safe with me.” She smelled like a rainforest, humid and exotic. He wanted to breathe her in for hours. Open his mouth to the sky and drink her.
Their eyes met again.
“I hate to work out. Absolutely loathe it.”
He laughed. “That’s your deep, dark secret?”
She grinned back, exposing very white teeth. One incisor was slightly crooked, not quite perfect. Somehow, it made her more attractive rather than less. “What did you think I was going to say?”
The bartender delivered their drinks. Dom nodded his thanks, and took a quick sip of Moose Drool. “You strike me as a…very complex woman,” he replied. “I was prepared for anything.”
A shadow passed over her eyes, there then gone, and she reached for her Diet Coke. Before she could take a drink, a loud beep shrilled from the depths of her purse. “I’m on call,” she muttered. “I have to take this.”
“Sure.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. As she swiped and read, The Count from Sesame Street flashed his fangs at him from her phone case.
Brains, body, and a sense of humor. Why had he never talked to her before? Why weren’t other men swarming? As she tapped and read, he considered her businesslike behavior, how she methodically worked the room during these events. Maybe Mila was as frustrated about how little GPL business got done here as he was.
Maybe he had an ally, at last.
Dropping the phone into her purse, Mila rose from the stool. “I have to go.”
Damn. “Can’t someone else fix whatever the problem is?”
“No. I’m the one who’s on call.”
“When can I see you again?” he blurted. Hell, why would she want to see him again? Though his family connections and pristine genetic panel ensured his GPL membership, he was under no illusions about his looks. Though his family was comfortable enough financially, her parents were loaded.
She was digging in her purse again. When her hand came out, she was holding a key ring. “How about coffee?” she suggested.
Relief sluiced through his system. “Perfect. When?”
“You work days, right?”
“Some days, some nights.”
“I work nights—vampire’s hours,” she said. “How about we sync up after checking our schedules?”
“Great.” He was busy as hell, but he’d make time to see her. After they exchanged phone numbers, he reluctantly rose. “I look forward to it, Mila.” They kissed each other’s cheeks again. This time, he let his lips linger. Her surprised exhale brushed against his stubble, soft as a breeze.
Clearing her throat, she finally stepped away. “See you soon.”
“’Bye.” As she walked toward the door, he watched her high, tight butt shift under the businesslike gray fabric. Imagined how it would feel, shifting beneath his hands.
He was suddenly hard as a barbell.
Time to get out of here. The sooner he got to Stillwater and back, the sooner he could check out the genealogy database, then get to bed. Scaring the shit out of Tia Quinn had been so much easier before she’d moved to the freaking Wisconsin border.
Dropping a tip on the bar, he nodded his thanks to the bartender and left with new energy. Beer, check. Pretty girl, check.
Coming to the meeting hadn’t been an epic waste of time after all.
When Wyland finally called, Tia almost told him to shove it up his autocratic ass. Three things held her back: she was curious about the Archives, he was her Second, and he sounded utterly exhausted. These reasons, plus a host of others she didn’t want to examine too closely, had her agreeing to meet him at a long-term storage facility just down the road from Vamp Central instead of dancing with friends at First Avenue as she’d planned.
Her headlights sliced through the dark as she turned into the parking lot of the building she’d barely noticed the other night. Despite a newish sign that said “River City Storage,” the battered building had seen better days. Hers was the only car in the lot.
She’d rushed through her own work to help Wyland with his, and now he wasn’t even here to meet her? “Figures,” she grumbled, pulling up to the door illuminated by a single, stingy bulb. The building and the gravel lot were surrounded by tall trees and overgrown grass, and she couldn’t see a hint of Valerian’s house just down the road.
The place was seriously creepy. What possible business could Wyland have here? “Not that there’s any sign of him,” she muttered.
As she plucked her phone from her purse to call him, a light flicked on inside the building. Snagging the purse from the passenger seat, she scanned the lot, got out of her car, and locked the doors. As she approached the entrance, gravel crunched under her feet. Crickets chirped, the trees swayed in the breeze, and she could smell the St. Croix River from here. “Antonia?” Yes, that was Antonia Sebastiani trotting toward the door from the inside. Antonia was reputed to be a diabolical genius—probably the reason her father selected her to serve as the Incubus Second after Lukas abdicated the seat, choosing to focus on the security and technology risks that might reveal their existence to humanity.
Just how many Underworld Council members were working on this archiving project?
Antonia opened the door. “Hey,” she said around a wad of pink gum. “Tia, right? Nice to meet you. We appreciate the help.”
When something howled nearby, Tia scurried into the empty beige foyer. The dim light didn’t disguise the fact that the walls needed a fresh coat of paint. “I’m glad to be here.” Inside, rather than out there.
Antonia started walking down the hallway, her flip-flops snapping and her long black braid swishing back and forth across her cut-off jean shorts. “Come on, I’ll bring you down to Wyland.”
Down?
Antonia chattered about the heat and the traffic, probably trying to put her at ease. It was a characteristic most of the Council members she’d met seemed to share. Even Wyland had tried the other night, serving her a civilized glass of wine though he clearly hadn’t wanted her there. When he sat down beside her on that too-small settee, she’d been hyper-aware of his body heat. His crisp, clean scent. Every shift of his weight. She hadn’t been able to shake the unsettling sensitivity since.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked.
“Security cameras. We saw you drive into the lot.”
When the hallway dead-ended at a heavy door, Antonia slapped her hand against a small screen mounted at its side. It scanned her hand from top to bottom, and after a couple-second pause, a tiny light changed from red to green, accompanied by a near-silent click. Antonia gave the metal door a full-body yank, revealing an identical door straight ahead, more security cameras, and a stairwell leading down.
Her body hair prickled. What was this place?
Antonia gestured to the other security door. “Parking is through there. Wyland will give you a garage door opener.”
Indoor parking. So that was the reason she hadn’t seen any cars in the lot. “That’s convenient,” she said, following Antonia down the stairs. With cars parked inside and the foyer light turned off, passers-by would have no idea anyone was here.
Which was probably the point.
They stopped one flight down, at another security door guarded by cameras and biometrics. The stairwell descended at least one more floor that she could see. Curiosity simmered as Antonia repeated the access sequence she’d performed at the top of the stairs, yanking on the heavy door.
“Come on in.”
She followed Antonia from the dingy stairwell into a huge, white, blindingly-bright room that, depending on which area caught your attention, looked like a high-tech computer lab, Dumbledore’s office at Hogwarts, or an artifact storage facility like the one she’d seen in a documentary about The Smithsonian Institution. “Wow.”
“Sorry,” Antonia said. “I should have warned you about the lights.”
The back half of the huge room was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelving units, cleverly floor-mounted on a track system that allowed the shelves to be moved when a document or artifact was needed, then pushed together to maximize the storage space. Right now, the units were positioned so they created a long center aisle, except for one shelf that jutted into the empty space. Closer to the entrance and off to the right was a bank of computers, scanners, and monitors. Bailey slouched at one of the computers, headset on, bobbing and typing to a song only she could hear. On the long table to the left sat an ancient leather-bound book, a pair of white gloves, and an open pack of Bubble Yum. In the corner behind the table was an open doorway leading to what looked like a kitchenette. Given the antiseptic cleanliness of the work area, the scent of coffee was startling.
“Hey, Wyland!” Antonia shouted.
Bailey’s chair whipped around. “Christ on a freaking cracker, Antonia—oh, Tia. Hi.” She removed her headset and glanced up at the bank of security monitors reflecting nearly a dozen different views of the building and its surroundings. Sure enough, two screens displayed the entrance, and her car. “I didn’t realize you’d arrived.”
“Wyland asked me to keep an eye out for her. Where is he?” Antonia peered down the center aisle. “Wyland, Tia’s here!”
Wyland’s head and upper body suddenly appeared from behind the jutting shelf. “One moment,” he called back.
“Hurry up, dude. We’re late!” She turned toward Tia. “Bailey and I were supposed to be at Dad and Claudette’s house over an hour ago, and it’s going to take us almost that long to drive there.”
There was a mechanical hum as the shelves moved back into tidy alignment, and then Wyland was walking toward them, dress shoes clicking against the hard floor, wearing trim black pants and a sky blue button-down shirt that did amazing things for his icy Nordic coloring. His pale hair was slicked back into a low ponytail, showcasing his haughty cheekbones.
He reminded her of a runway model—lanky, striking, and…hungry. Yes, his killer cheekbones were even more prominent today. “Do you have any blood here?” she asked.
“Yes.” Antonia glanced at Wyland and swore. “Why does such a smart man wait until he’s practically starving before he feeds? Be right back.”
Wyland reached her as Antonia disappeared into the kitchen. “Tia.”
“Wyland. Sir.”
After the slightest hesitation, he bent to kiss her cheeks. His subtle body scent snarled her thoughts, and the slight scratch of stubble sent lust streaking down her spine. His lips were surprisingly warm, and so much softer than they looked.
Stepping back, she cleared her throat.
He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, then removed them again with a faint scowl. His eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair, framed pale blue eyes the color of faded jeans, or a glacial lake. “Thank you for offering to help, and please don’t call me ‘Sir,’” he said with a sigh. “It makes me feel positively ancient.”
Sweeping his tall, lean frame with a head-to-toe glance, she snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right.” Sensuality, tightly leashed, simmered off him in waves. Stop mooning. Back to business. “What am I helping with tonight?” She looked around in amazement. “What is this place?”
“It’s our Archives—the primary site, at any rate.” His face was etched with exhaustion. She could tell by the subtle movement of his mouth that he was tonguing his left incisor. “Let me show you around.”
“First things first.” Antonia carried an oversized plastic cup emblazoned with a purple and gold Minnesota Vikings helmet. “It’s snack time.”
“You’re a fine one to lecture people about taking care of themselves,” Bailey scolded. “Thankfully Tia noticed you look about ready to drop.”
He shot her a look she couldn’t read, but accepted the glass from Antonia. The rim of the Big Gulp-sized glass was so large it covered the lower half of his face, but as he drank, she could see the double grooves carved between his eyebrows smooth out slightly.
“Thank you,” he said, lowering the glass. “I’d lost track of time.”
There wasn’t the slightest hint of blood staining his lips, not even in the corners of his mouth. A sudden urge to muss him up, to drive her hands into that slicked-back hair and lick blood from his lips, almost clobbered her sideways.
Did he look so neat and clean after drinking from the vein?
Antonia glanced at her, then at Wyland, her nostrils delicately flaring. Yeah, there was no way to hide knee-knocking lust from the young succubus—not when her species absorbed emotional energy for sustenance. “Why don’t you show Tia around, Wyland?” Antonia suggested. “Bailey and I have to get going.”
Wyland’s gaze found hers. “Are you comfortable being here without a chaperone?”
Comfortable? Hardly. “This is hardly Regency England,” she replied, not hiding her amusement. “No chaperones required—not on my end, anyway.”
His black pupils dilated, shoving the icy blue out of the way.
Okay, that came out a lot more suggestively than she’d planned.
He cleared his throat. “I’d be pleased to give you a tour.”
Oh yeah, he felt it, too. Anticipation bubbled like champagne.
“All righty then.” Bailey tugged on Antonia’s arm. “We’ll just…leave you to it.”
Despite what she’d said to Wyland, Tia watched Bailey and Antonia gather their belongings with more than a little concern. What the hell was she thinking, flirting with the Vampire Second? Wyland wasn’t a casual hook-up, someone with whom she could share a simple night of pleasure and then move on. There would be no ‘simple’ about it, not with him.
“’Bye,” Bailey called from the security door.
“If you see Scarlett, tell her I’ll call soon,” she called back.
“Will do.”
The women disappeared, the heavy steel door slamming behind them.
Leaving her and Wyland all alone.
As the door closed with a dungeon-like clang, Wyland cursed his testosterone-addled stupidity. Tia’s words had been a challenge, a silky sexual gauntlet thrown right at his feet. He should have left it lying there, ignored and unheeded, but he hadn’t—and he couldn’t blame it on the fresh blood surging through his system, or on a monumental lack of sleep.
He hadn’t made such a critical error in a very long time.
He barely stopped himself from rubbing his burning eyes. Between emergencies at the hospital and his Council responsibilities, he hadn’t slept deeply in nearly two days. But did she think he was asexual? Neutered? That it was safe to tease him, given his advanced years? He ached to show her, in the most direct, primitive way, that he was no Regency fop bound by the rules of the ton.
“Could we start the tour back there, in the kitchenette?” Tia asked. Her voice stroked like velvet. “I could use something to drink.”
“Certainly.” He gestured for her to precede him. He’d offer her basic hospitality, give her the tour she’d requested, and assign her a task so monumentally tedious that she’d never come back again. Then he’d go home, seek the oblivion of his featherbed, and try to get a couple hours’ sleep before the next emergency call. Unfortunately, blood diseases didn’t operate on a predictable timetable—and to vampires, blood was life.
As they passed the long table on their way to the kitchenette, he dragged his gaze from Tia’s swaying, heart-shaped bottom, looking at the ancient leather-bound book Antonia hadn’t put away before leaving. One of the oldest artifacts in their collection and not scheduled for preservation for months, he’d asked Antonia to look—to very carefully look—for references to a youthful Valerian, to Sigurd, or to The Old Ways. Though she’d worked diligently, popping annoying bubbles, she hadn’t bothered to disguise her yawns.
It was a perfect assignment for Tia. And speaking of perfect…her curvy rear end, covered in tight, black denim. Clothing styles had changed dozens times or more since he’d last thought about undressing a woman, and the fashions of this era left very little mystery about a woman’s physical contours. Back in turn-of-the-century England, it had taken long, long minutes for Deirdre’s ladies’ maids to remove corsets, chemises, petticoats, silk stockings, and whisper-thin shifts while he watched from a nearby chaise. Deirdre’s gowns, made by top French modistes, had been exquisite pieces of art, requiring, as she’d said, “a delicate touch” to remove. Watching the slow, careful disrobing had been foreplay in itself, but Tia’s denims looked like they’d stand up to rougher handling—
“Wyland?” Tia glanced over her shoulder. “How long has all this—” she gestured to the roof and to the floor with a wave of her arm “—been here?”
He fought to get his thoughts back on track. “We acquired the building and property about five years ago,” he said as they reached the small kitchen, “and we excavated the underground facility soon afterward.” Up until that time, most of their culture’s fragile artifacts and documents had been stored in the catacombs under Valerian’s house—not that everything had been moved yet. There was still one room to deal with, at the far end of the tunnel. There never seemed to be enough time. “Right now, we’re focused on document preservation work, and digitizing the written materials.” The project was moving at a snail’s pace, but there were only so many people he trusted to work with these materials. According to Lukas’s background check, Tia Quinn was one of them. Lukas had reassured him that Tia had never—not once—reported anything that would put their culture at risk. For a journalist, she’d somehow managed to walk on the right side of a mighty fine line.
She looked at the speckled linoleum floor. “How many floors down?”
“Three floors underground, all climate controlled, with the garage up top.” He put the plastic cup in the sink and turned on the water. “What would you like to drink?”
“Some blood, I think. It’s been a long day.” Not waiting for him, she went to the refrigerator, opened it, and peered inside. She pulled a plastic bag of blood off the top shelf, raised it to her mouth, and drove her sharp, tiny fangs into it with a soft pop.
Lust zinged. “May I offer you a glass?” he strangled out.
“No, thanks,” she said around the bag. “This is fine.”
His eyes locked onto her lips as she suckled, onto her throat as she swallowed the life-giving blood. He imagined her hands, cradling his cock like she did that bag. Her lips, greedily suckling on his—
Bugger. With a quick pivot, he turned back to the sink, washing the cup with more attention than the task required.
“Mmm.” Her low moan slithered down his spine.
He had to look.
She pulled the bag away from her mouth and licked her lips. “This is good.”
His heart pounded in time with the pulse he could see fluttering at the base of her neck. His penis stiffened. Reaching into the refrigerator himself, he snatched another bag from the shelf and drove his fangs into the flexible plastic.
It was either that, or her neck.
She threw away her empty bag and explored the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers, oblivious to his bloodlust.
Scowling, he drank faster.
“There you go,” she said approvingly. “You really shouldn’t let so much time go between feedings.”
Her maternal tone irked him. He was Wyland, the Vampire Second. He’d been feeding himself three hundred years longer than she’d been walking the Earth.
It irked him even more that she was right.
He drained the bag, then dropped it in the garbage can. The top closed with a metallic clang. Nourishment surged through his system, but the blood didn’t do anything to counteract his desire for her. Time to get out of here. “Are you done snooping?”
She closed the door of the cabinet under the sink, the slightest hint of pink staining her cheeks. “Sorry. Occupational hazard.”
“Let me give you a quick tour of the rest of the place, and then we can get to work.”
“Okay.”
Despite her agreement, there was nothing quick about the tour. An hour later, he was still showing her their treasures, and if pressed, he’d have admitted he enjoyed it. She had a quick mind, and asked clever, probing questions. She seemed especially interested in how their worldwide information network had evolved over time.
“So vampires scattered throughout the world have sent reports to the Archives for hundreds of years?” she marveled. “That’s a lot of material.”
He nodded, gesturing to the rows and rows of shelves with a wide swing of his arm. “That said, much of what you see here is the work of a single person. Valerian started recording information about our culture, and its intersection with humanity, when he was a very young man. Much of our history was literally written by his hand.”
Tia appeared awed, as well as she should.
“Remember that before the printing press was invented, the ability to read and write was largely the purview of clergy. Valerian masqueraded as such for many, many years.”
“He’s older than the printing press,” Tia murmured.
“Its invention was a quantum leap for our people as well as for humanity,” he said. “As Val encountered other literate vampires during his travels, he asked them to record their observations, and send them to the Archives.”
“I’m aware of his great age, of course, but I’ve never given much thought to things elderly vampires have seen over their life spans.” She looked at him. “I understand you started studying with Valerian in England, in the late 1600s?”
“Early 1700s.” Bloody hell, why bother correcting her? Either date meant he was old as graveyard dirt.
“You met Valerian back when you were in medical school?”
Met him? Valerian had sought him out, and probably saved his life. Wyland’s passionate interest in blood transfusion had bordered on heretical, and Valerian had provided the means for him to explore the properties of the rich, red nectar that provided sustenance to their kind away from prying human eyes.
“And you became the Second less than a hundred years later?”
Her warm alto voice, and the way she framed her questions, invited one to confide. He couldn’t forget he was being interviewed, and by an expert. “When the Civil War broke out, Valerian felt he was needed in the Colonies. I remained in Europe, and expanded our network.” Until Bram had published that damn novel. Who’d have thought that, after toiling away with pen and paper for years, his friend would find literary fame with a vampire story?
Bram’s subject matter couldn’t be a coincidence.
He turned his attention back to Tia. “Modern communication methods both simplify this effort, and make it more complex.”
She grinned as she glanced at the computers. “You’re buried in email?”
“Yes. Encrypted email has become our primary collection tool—very efficient—but I occasionally remind our gatherers that images and objects tell important stories, too. Let me show you something.” He guided her into the aisle with a courteous touch at the small of her back, brushing the slice of warm, bare skin above her low-slung belt. Clenching his jaw, he manipulated the shelves on their tracks, exposed the rack he wanted, and opened one of the dozens of shallow, flat storage drawers.
She looked at the scrap of wrinkled, soot-covered parchment under treated glass, and read the shakily-written words aloud: “They are burning us as witches.” She looked up at him. “This is from The Burning Times.”
“Yes.” When he’d placed the artifact under the translucent glass, he swore he could still smell smoke.
“I knew we’d lost some of our people during that time, but—” she traced her finger over the clear glass “—it’s another matter to see hard proof.”
Were those tears in her eyes? “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
She straightened, blinking furiously. “My feelings pale next to those who suffered. Or who’ve seen what you and Valerian have.”
He busied himself closing the drawer, and moving the shelves back into place. She saw too damn much.
“So, you were our European liaison for over two hundred years?”
He nodded. “I moved to America in the early nineteen hundreds. Valerian needed me here.” And he’d needed to get away from England—away from Deirdre’s scheming, and from his growing suspicious about where Bram had gotten the idea for his story.
He hadn’t been careful enough, and his people had paid the price.
His phone vibrated in a distinctive SOS rhythm. “It’s the hospital. Excuse me.”
Nodding, she wandered over to the table where Antonia had been working to give him some privacy. She leaned over the ancient book, hands behind her back, peering at its yellowed pages without touching them.
Very good.
He scrolled through the patient intake report. Mila Stanton had passed out at work again, and the nasty gash at the back of her head definitely needed stitches. The delicate young vampire had autoimmune hemolytic anemia, and she didn’t always comply with her treatment plan. She refused to share her diagnosis with her parents, so they couldn’t help. With a couple of taps, he instructed the resident to handle the wound and to start transfusing. With a mental apology to the very capable resident, he added that he was en route. Now would be a good time to deliver a strongly worded lecture, reminding Mila that she had to drink more blood. He hit ‘Send’ and slipped the phone back into the leather holder clipped to his belt. “Unfortunately, our work will have to wait for another time.” A time when he was better prepared to deal with her.
“You’re going to Memorial?” She glanced at her watch. “Now? Are you okay to drive? Do you need a ride?” She paused. “You looked so tired earlier.”
“The blood rejuvenated me.”
“Do you have a place you can rest? At the hospital, or a place in town? What about the sun?”
“Tia.” He put his hand over her mouth. It seemed to be the only way he’d get a word in edgewise. “I’m fine. I’ll catch a nap at the hospital before I drive home, but thank you for your concern.”
She pulled his hand away. Her fingers felt warm against his skin, an intimate brand. “Make sure you do.”
She sounded…worried about him. It had been a long time since a woman had worried about him.
She abruptly dropped his hand. A delicate blush washed over her cheeks, turning her skin a delightful shade of pink. “Do you suppose Valerian is awake?”
He nodded. “I think he and Thane planned to watch Downton Abbey tonight.”
“I love that show! Do you watch it?”
“No.” He grabbed his suit coat off the back of Bailey’s chair and handed Tia her purse. The drive to the hospital, on the nearly-empty night highway, would give him almost an hour to get his unruly body under control again.
He had to get himself under control again.
“When will we work together next?” Tia asked. “We didn’t get anything accomplished tonight.”
He started walking toward the stairwell. “I’ll let you know.” He’d find some diplomatic way to decline any future offers of assistance.
She didn’t follow. Instead, she lifted her chin in challenge.
“I’ll call. I promise.” The words were out of his mouth before he knew he was going to say them, and he felt a trickle of admiration for her chutzpah. No one had questioned his actions, or as Bailey would say, called him on his shit, in a very long time. He flipped the light switches next to the door, dousing the clinical, bright light. Several dim security lights illuminated the space well enough to navigate. “I’ll escort you to your car.”
“No need.”
It wasn’t worth discussing. “Come on.” After a quick glance at the security screens, he led her through the heavy metal door and up the stairs. When they reached the entrance, he scanned the parking lot again, and opened the door. “Drive safely.”
“Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” she murmured, amusement in her eyes. But she didn’t move. Mosquitoes buzzed and crickets chirped. Finally, she put her hands on his shoulders for balance, rose onto her tiptoes, and softly kissed both of his cheeks.
She smelled luscious, like blood and lilacs. It was all he could do keep his tongue in his mouth.
Tia studied him for several seconds, her gaze flicking down to his lips momentarily before her own quirked into a smile. “Take care.” She hit a button on the key fob in her hand, and her car’s headlights flashed, spotlighting them. She about-faced, walked to her car, got in, buckled up, then drove away.
He watched until her tail lights disappeared, pondering her words. “Take care.” A huff of self-mocking laughter escaped. Take care? That’s what he did. That was all he did.
And damn it, it wasn’t enough anymore.