Chapter Six
Several hours later, having abandoned all responsibility for settling Tia into their home to Thane, Wyland walked into the formal dining room. The space was dimly lit, with the chandelier tossing small, radiant prisms against the silver metallic Art Deco wallpaper. The windows were open, and the night breeze, lush with the scent of Thane’s rose garden, gently ruffled the sheers.
Linen napkins, lead crystal, fine china, Georgian silver…
Damn it, Thane.
Not only had Thane put Tia in the bedroom next to his instead of in one of the perfectly lovely third-floor guest rooms, Thane had informed him that tonight, they were having their midnight meal in the dining room. “We have a guest,” Thane had said, as if Wyland was a simpleton completely unaware of even the most basic points of hospitality. He glanced to the swinging door leading to the kitchen. Given what had happened the last time he and Tia had shared a meal, it was probably best they relocate. After that incendiary, ill-advised kiss, he could barely walk through the kitchen without getting aroused.
Thane shouldered through the door carrying a steaming bowl of green beans shimmering with butter. “There you are.” He set the bowl on the table next to a platter holding crisp iceberg lettuce, ripe red tomatoes, pickles, and sliced onions. “I thought I might have to drag you away from your desk.”
Thane knew him too well—he had considered working through the meal—but as Thane had scolded him earlier, they did have a guest. “Why is the table only set for three?” Thane usually joined them for meals. Frankly, he’d counted on Thane carrying the bulk of the conversation if Valerian tired.
“Tonight, I will serve.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but a duet of laughter suddenly danced into the room. Stepping into the open doorway between the dining room and living room, he watched Valerian and Tia slowly walk arm in arm down the stairs.
Tia looked like a modern-day Audrey Hepburn in trim black pants, a crisp white blouse, and ballet flats, but Valerian, perhaps energized by the prospect of entertaining a guest, was resplendent in a garish purple 1940s-era zoot suit, complete with wide tie, suspenders, and decorative hanging chain. A ragged tricorn hat perched jauntily on his head, and he wore a pair of bright red Reeboks. Wyland barely blinked at the ensemble. The clothing in Valerian’s closets spanned centuries, and he mixed and matched with impunity.
Tia canted her head toward Valerian and murmured something. Valerian tipped his head back and laughed.
Then he wobbled.
“Whoa.” She quickly clutched Valerian’s arm, steadying him. “Gravity surge.” She didn’t say anything else as she helped Valerian navigate the rest of the stairs.
“Hello, Wyland,” Valerian greeted him.
“Hello. Hello, Tia.” He managed to nod respectfully, all the while noticing the delicate veins exposed by her open-necked shirt and pulled-back hair. “Are you settling in?”
“Yes, thanks.” She stood at the bottom of the stairs, supporting Valerian as he stepped down to the landing. “My room is beautiful, and that bathroom?” Her expression of ecstasy seared itself onto his retinas. “I could live in that soaking tub for days.”
The subtle, humid scent of lilacs had wafted into his room earlier, so he suspected she’d already made use of it. “May I seat you?”
“Please.” But she didn’t let go of Valerian’s elbow, leaving her walking between them. At her other side, Valerian looked strong and proud, like he was escorting her rather than the other way around. Tia hadn’t been in the house more than a couple of hours, but the new spring in Valerian’s step was unmistakable.
They walked into the dining room. “Oh, how beautiful,” Tia breathed as she took in the table setting. Her glowing expression as they seated Valerian made him glad that Thane had made the effort.
Thane entered from the kitchen carrying another platter.
Of very rare hamburgers.
“Miss Tia’s request,” Thane murmured.
Of course it was. His mouth suddenly watered.
“Wyland.” Thane tipped his head toward Tia, who stood by her chair—not waiting to be seated, but admiring the wallpaper. Before he could reach her, she slipped into her seat.
Bemused, he took the seat across from her.
The bemusement continued over the next hour, as they enjoyed what was essentially a picnic in the most formally decorated room in their home. As they ate loaded hamburgers and homemade French fries, conversation bounced from topic to topic. Valerian seemed delighted to talk about something other than Council business—had they really fallen into such a rut?—but Wyland had nothing to add to a conversation about the best television series finales in history. While Valerian made the case for M*A*S*H and Six Feet Under, Tia rhapsodized about The Sopranos and Breaking Bad.
Bloodthirsty little thing.
He took a sip of blood-mulled wine, watching her. She seemed fully recovered from her encounter with the snakes. Good for her, because he wasn’t sure he’d recovered from the fear-spiked drive to her house. His uncharacteristic jealousy. Finding her unharmed, but surrounded by snakes. Waiting for her to pack a bag, then feeling her headlights stare at him as she followed his car from her house to his. All in all, it had been a discombobulating experience. He still hadn’t quite regained his equilibrium.
That had to be the reason he kept staring at her rosy, unpainted lips as they smiled, ate, drank, and formed words.
Thane walked in with a beautiful raspberry cheesecake and coffee. As he served, Tia asked him to join them. “Could you fill me in on the household routine? I’d like to impact it as little as possible while I’m here.”
One more small vampire wouldn’t cause a ripple in Thane’s management of the household, but it was polite of her to ask about their routine, or lack thereof. Between Valerian’s health issues, and him coming and going at all hours, there was no such thing as a typical day. While Thane and Tia talked, he watched Valerian enjoy his small slice of cheesecake. Half a hamburger, a dozen French fries, some green beans, and now dessert? He couldn’t remember the last time Val had eaten so much food in a single sitting.
Across the table, Tia licked raspberry sauce off her fork with kittenish swipes of her tongue. Yes, her presence might help Valerian recover, but her effect on him was another matter entirely.
Tia set down her fork. “How is security handled during the daylight hours, when everyone’s asleep?”
“Nick Solberg manages security for us,” Thane answered.
“I thought Nick worked for Sebastiani Security.”
She knew Nick well enough to call him by his first name?
“He does, and so do all the other guards.” Reaching for the sugar bowl, Thane transferred a precise teaspoon to his coffee cup, and quietly stirred. “Being we’re so remotely located, Lukas recommended that we have a full security team on site.”
Tia nodded. “Makes sense. You’re a fair distance out of the city.”
Thane set the spoon on the rim of the saucer with nary a clink. “Nick and his team work out of a set of offices in the west wing. I’ll tell him you’re our guest at today’s shift change. He’ll probably want to speak with you in person,” he added. “Don’t take it personally if he’s…taciturn.”
She glanced at Wyland, amused. “I’m getting used to it.”
“Indeed.” Thane cleared his throat diplomatically. “We also have a rather large household staff—kitchen, housekeeping, lawn and gardens—all vetted by Sebastiani Security.”
Perhaps in deference to Valerian, Thane hadn’t mentioned Valerian’s round-the-clock cadre of nurses and personal care attendants, whom they’d hired when Valerian became so ill with pneumonia last year. Even though Valerian seemed to be on the road to recovery, he and Thane had recently decided to keep them on as permanent staff. Knowing Valerian had dedicated care, and cheerful company, eased their minds immensely.
“So, tell me about your career,” Thane said. “I understand you’re an investigative journalist?”
Tia laughed. “Via a very roundabout route, yes.”
Thane’s smile invited confidences. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
“You can’t imagine.”
Wyland listened as Tia told Thane some hair-raising stories about her early days as a music journalist, which, as far as he could tell, pretty much confirmed the ‘sex, drugs, and rock and roll’ stereotype. “I was on the road with an up-and-coming band, working on a story about how long it can take to become an overnight sensation—” she made air quotes with her fingers “—when I caught the stench of payola.” She glanced at Valerian. “That’s when—”
“Someone pays to get a song played on the radio,” Valerian finished.
She nodded. “Pay for play. It can influence song popularity, chart position, and ultimately sales. There’s a lot of money on the line. So, I followed the money. Rolling Stone published my exposé, it became a series, and suddenly I was writing investigative pieces instead of music reviews. Rolling Stone couldn’t publish them all, so I started In Like Quinn.”
“Becoming your own publisher,” Thane said.
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
“An amazing thing.”
She shrugged. “It’s just a website.”
Just a website? Did she have any idea what a bloody marvel it was to convey one’s thoughts and ideas digitally, rather than laboring over pen and parchment by candlelight? To have one’s words travel through the ether at the touch of a button or a click of a mouse, instead of hoping your messenger hadn’t paid for the honor of delivering your words with his life?
No. She didn’t. She’d never known a life without computers or air travel, much less electricity, antibiotics, or automobiles.
As she continued the conversation with Thane and Valerian, her eyes sparkled with verve, with life. Her impish grin conveyed such energy and delight.
Had he ever been so young?
“Right now, I’m working on a story about human trafficking,” she said. “So many young people simply disappear, sold into sexual servitude. It’s a bigger problem than most people realize.”
His gaze whipped to Thane, whose flat expression camouflaged a hideous internal roar, a grief-stained rage that hadn’t waned over the years. Thane’s youngest sister had been stolen in a raid many years ago, never to be seen again.
Tia lowered her coffee cup, glancing at them warily. “Is everything okay?”
He and Valerian exchanged a quick glance. This wasn’t the first time Tia seemed to perceive something…more going on between the vampires in her immediate vicinity without the benefit of a shared blood bond.
“Please,” Thane said. “Continue. You’re working on a human trafficking story?”
“It’s slow going,” she admitted. “There are so many angles to work—the man camps at the Bakken oil fields, the big sporting events, the suburban homes that are actually underground sex clubs…”
Wyland sat upright in the ladder-backed chair.
“Oh, cool your jets,” she told him. “I’m backing off the Stephen/Annika angle—as you requested—but I’ve discovered that the house where Stephen killed his first victim is one of dozens of underground sex clubs based out of single-family homes in Twin Cities suburban neighborhoods,” she said. “To me, this indicates organization, and a profit motive. Who owns the properties? Who’s running the show? I’m following the money—or trying to, anyway.”
“And what will you do once you find out?” Fear made his voice snap like a whip. “You agreed you’d drop the story.”
“I did no such thing. I agreed to refine the subject. Which I do not have to clear through you.”
Thane stilled. Valerian simply forked up a small bite of cheesecake.
The woman was going to drive him straight to Bedlam.
“Stephen’s first victim was described as being found ‘trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.’ I’m trying to find out if Commander Lupinsky worked the shibari angle—you know, the Japanese bondage art where a person is tied and suspended in a highly intricate arrangement of ropes? But he won’t return my call,” she said. “Skilled rope fetish practitioners are really quite rare, at least here in the Midwest.”
Thane was gawping like a fish out of water.
Wyland leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, as if her words hadn’t shocked him, too. Maybe one small vampire would throw Thane for a loop.
“Did Stephen’s victim know what he was getting into when he went to the sex club?” she continued. “Or was he simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong dom?” Raising her cup, Tia took another sip of her coffee. “I’m interviewing some people in the local BDSM, kink, and fetish communities to see how people consensually connect with others who share their interests.” She shrugged one rounded shoulder. “It might be a dead end, but…”
But it might not be. If Lupinsky hadn’t investigated the shibari angle, doing so now might give them a fresh avenue of investigation on a case grown too damn cold.
She was good, damn it.
“You might talk to Nick,” Valerian suggested from the end of the table.
Her face lit. “Great idea. He’d know.”
“He’d know what?” Lukas had fully vetted the man, but… “Tia.” He held her gaze, pitching his voice low and languid. It would echo in her head, throb in her thoughts. “What connection does Nick Solberg have to your story?”
Her eyes went vague.
“Wyland, what are you doing?”
He ignored the censure in Valerian’s voice. He had to get to the bottom of this. “Tia, what connection does Nick have with your story?”
“He’s a dom,” she slurred.
Nick, a dom? A sexual dominant? How could Tia possibly know such a thing? “For hire?”
“Of course not.” Even in thrall, Tia’s response was scathing.
Her answer was a relief, but there was another matter to resolve, once and for all. Pushing guilt aside, he threw every lick of his strength into his next words. “You need to drop this story.”
“I need to drop this story?” Tia parroted.
“Yes.”
“Wyland!” Valerian snapped. “Enough.”
His head whipped to Val. “She’s going to get herself killed.”
Tia jerked in her chair, blinking rapidly. “Sorry.” She lifted a hand to her temple. “I kind of zoned out there for a minute.”
“Are you okay?” Valerian asked.
“I have a killer headache,” she replied with a wince. “I think I’d better go lie down for a bit.”
Good. He had to call Gideon, STAT.
Rising, she cleared her throat. “Thank you for your hospitality, for inviting me to be a guest in your home.”
“We’re pleased to have you,” Thane said.
She rubbed her temple again. “Thane, thank you for the delicious meal. I think I’m going to go upstairs now.”
“Our home is yours,” Valerian said with a gentle smile. “Be at ease.”
“Thank you.” After kissing Val on both cheeks, she gave him a single, stingy look before leaving the room.
Both men stared at him. Thane’s appalled expression spoke volumes, and Valerian looked as disappointed as he could remember.
Disappointed in him.
“Was that really necessary?” Valerian nearly whispered.
When Wyland rose from his seat, he felt creaky and infirm, as if he’d aged centuries in the last few minutes. “Yes. It was.” And with as much dignity as he could manage, he left the men who’d raised him without another word of explanation.
Dominic jolted awake, pricking his ears and lifting his snout to the breeze as he edged even further back into the tall ditch grass. The garage door was opening with a soft mechanical hum.
Finally, something was happening.
He couldn’t believe he’d dozed off just down the road from Vamp Central.
Shifted.
Shit.
If humans saw him, they’d think someone’s dog had made a break for it, but the few who knew better would recognize him for what he was: Werewolf.
Pushing slowly to his haunches, ignoring the stink of fear from a nearby rabbit, he watched as the door slowly rose. Two sets of feet. Two pairs of legs. A man and a woman—Wyland and Tia Quinn—together.
After leaving the snakes in her bedroom yesterday, he’d expected…well, in hindsight, he didn’t know what he’d expected. To rattle her? Yes. To show her that her security was a fucking joke? Yeah. But if he thought she’d run out the door, squealing like a terrified little girl?
No, that hadn’t happened.
What had happened was that Wyland, the freaking Vampire Second, had squealed wheels into her driveway not fifteen minutes after she’d discovered the snakes, with Lukas Sebastiani, Jack Kirkland, and Chico Perez arriving soon after. Kirkland, the human, didn’t worry him that much, but Lukas Sebastiani damn well did, and Perez’s werewolf nose was a serious threat. So he’d backed away from Tia’s house, but not so far away that he couldn’t see when everyone left. He’d followed Tia and Wyland to Vamp Central, where she’d pulled her car right into the garage under the watchful eye of a beefy security guard.
Three Council members—Sebastiani, Kirkland, and Wyland—at Quinn’s beck and call. He could only imagine the services she provided in exchange for such dedicated attention.
The garage door was open now. He watched Wyland open the passenger door of his black Porsche, then guide Tia into the seat with a hand on the small of her back. His mother had once called Wyland a gentleman’s gentleman— “Such beautiful, courtly manners” —but there was nothing courtly about the Second’s fair-weather ride. The Targa had some serious horsepower under the hood.
Imagine being able to spend over a hundred grand on a car you couldn’t even drive in the snow.
Wyland strode to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and started the car. Its soft purr rose to a growl as he backed out of the garage.
He had to follow.
Dom pushed to his feet and ran to where he’d parked the Pathfinder. A nervous squirrel dove into the underbrush as he passed, and an owl hooted nearby. Fireflies flickered in the distance. The air, damp as a sponge, smelled like fresh deer droppings, rotted leaves, and a hint of exhaust from Wyland’s car.
There were no humans nearby.
He dropped to his haunches behind the Pathfinder. Taking a deep breath, he felt the pull of the new moon, hiding in the night sky. Felt the support of the ground beneath his belly. Then…his brain went on walkabout. Scents faded into the background as his snout receded. Fangs became teeth, claws became nails, and fur became flesh. Skin and bone shifted and popped as his body mass rearranged itself in a timeless rush.
Several seconds later, when he came to his senses, he was breathing hard and lying bare-ass naked in the itchy grass. Pushing to his feet, he reached into the open hatch for his jeans, T-shirt, and flip-flops, then quickly dressed.
The Targa’s tail lights disappeared over the small rise to the south.
He followed with his headlights off, hanging well back. Reaching for the cup of gas station coffee sitting in the recessed holder, he sipped the cold, bitter brew. Next week, his dad’s doctors wanted him to try to shift. “If I can’t, you know what to do,” his father had said.
Dominic rubbed his bleary eyes. Hadn’t his dad ever seen CSI? How the fuck was he supposed to do his duty when the hospital had security up the wazoo? Even after his father moved home—gawd, his mother had already ordered a bed with a Stryker frame, and planned to put it in the formal dining room—how could he hasten his father’s journey to the Pale without being charged with patricide? It wasn’t as if he could just issue a Google search on how to kill someone and make it look like an accident.
Well, he could, but that would be really stupid.
How did the werewolves who followed The Old Ways get away with it? Or did they? Maybe going to prison was part of the deal.
He needed more information.
Brake lights glowed up ahead as Wyland pulled into the parking lot of a ratty-looking storage facility less than a half mile away from Vamp Central. What the hell…? Had Tia stored some of her belongings there when she moved? One of the big double doors was opening, creating a bright envelope of light as it rose. The Porsche idled in the gravel lot, waiting for the door to reach its apex. Once it did, Wyland pulled in.
They disappeared as the door closed behind them.
What the…
Dominic pulled off the road again, took another gulp of the cold coffee, and settled in to watch.
And wait.
An hour before dawn, Tia walked into Valerian’s sitting room, rubbing her temples.
Valerian looked up from this week’s People magazine. “Oh, hello, dear. I thought you were at the Archives with Wyland.”
“I was, but then there was an emergency at the hospital.” And it was probably just as well, because no matter how interesting she’d found the old books and manuscripts he’d asked her to read, her headache had dug in like a pickax. She’d downed two bags of blood at the Archives, but the throbbing was still vicious. “I told him I could walk back, but he insisted on dropping me off.”
“As he should,” Valerian said mildly, removing and folding his wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“It’s just a short walk—”
“Down an unlit rural road in the middle of the night. Tia, you’re a smart, capable woman. Why take unnecessary risks?”
Okay, that took the wind out of her sails.
Valerian smiled angelically.
Wily old vampire. As she bent down to kiss his cheek, pain lanced her temple. “Do you have any Tylenol?”
He waved to the bathroom. “Medicine cabinet. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.”
Opening the medicine cabinet, she grabbed the familiar red and white bottle, and shook out two capsules. After a pause, she added a third. What was the deal with the headaches? Maybe she was allergic to something in the house—mold, or a cleanser or something. Or maybe the stress was finally getting to her.
She had to find a way to shake it off, because she’d been utterly worthless working with Wyland tonight. They’d started out working side-by-side at the computers, with her searching the Archive, and him doing…whatever he’d been doing. She’d lost too much time staring at his elegant hands as he quietly typed, at the ferocious furrow of concentration that had wrinkled his brow. He’d taken quite a few phone calls while they’d been there—from the hospital, from legal clients, from Council members—and he’d given each call his undivided attention. No multi-tasking for Wyland, which made a lot of sense given lives could be at stake with each and every conversation.
Having been the recipient of a single, scorching kiss, she was dead certain he’d lavish the same focus, and exquisite attention to detail, upon his lovers.
She’d thought about the kiss too damn much.
“Tia? Are you finding what you need?”
“Yes,” she called back, snapping the cover back on the pill bottle and returning it to the medicine cabinet. She tossed the pills into her mouth and swallowed them dry.
When she went back to the sitting room, Valerian was flipping through the box of movies she’d left. “A half-dozen versions of Dracula. Nosferatu. Blackula, Dragula, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel, True Blood… Isn’t it amazing the degree to which vampires have saturated human culture?”
She nodded. “It’s an interest of mine. I’m pretty sure I have nearly every vampire film and TV series ever made—the good, the bad, and ugly.”
Valerian picked up a luridly-colored DVD. “Spermula. How very interesting.”
Interesting that vampire porn existed, or that she owned it? “Give me that,” she muttered, snatching it out of his hand.
Out of the Vampire First’s gnarled, arthritic hand. She closed her eyes, mortified. “I’m so sorry, Sir. Are you okay?”
“Certainly. And drop the sir, if you please.”
“You make it way too easy to forget you’re the most powerful vampire on the planet.”
A smile lit his face. “What a beautiful compliment.”
She set the movie back in the box. “Well, my mother would be ashamed of me.” My mother. “Damn, I haven’t told my parents where I am. I haven’t told them anything.”
“Is there anything they can do?” he asked with a shrug. “Maybe it’s best they don’t know.”
Valerian was probably right. The fewer people who knew she was staying with Valerian and Wyland, the better. “I’ll tell them to call my cell if they need to contact me.”
“I think that’s best for now. How’s the headache?”
“Getting better, thanks.” She eyed Valerian. His color was good, and his eyes snapped with energy. Maybe she could get some research done tonight, after all. “You said earlier that I could interview you for the Archives. Are you up for it right now?”
“Certainly.”
She pulled a digital recorder out of her pocket and set it on the end table. “And maybe afterward, we could watch a movie.” Rooting through the box, she grabbed Love at First Bite. Hopefully, Frank Langella’s dark, smoldering sensuality would push Wyland’s pale and broody version out of her mind for a while.
Valerian picked up the digital recorder, turning it over and examining it with careful hands. “Alka used a similar device when she recorded our dinner parties.” He went on to describe the conversations he and Alka Schlessinger, the Valkyrie First, had enjoyed over a series of intimate dinners. “They think I’m going to die soon.”
The matter-of-fact words snatched the breath from her lungs. “Who does?”
“Alka. Elliott. Wyland.”
And Wyland was his doctor. “What do you think?”
He smiled cheerfully. “We’re all dying. Every day we live brings us one step closer to the finish line.”
She considered. “Can’t disagree with that. How about some wine?”
“That would be lovely. Thane brought a lovely French merlot up from the catacombs yesterday.”
She poured them each a glass of wine, noticing from the label that the vintage was older than her mother. Her first, testing sip positively melted on her tongue. “I’m going to get so spoiled while I’m here,” she said, sitting in the closest chair. “I don’t know much about wine beyond red, rosé, and white, but this tastes fantastic.” After taking another sip, she set the glass down on the priceless antique table. “Shit,” she muttered, quickly lifting the glass. “Do you have coasters?”
Valerian set his glass down on the ancient, polished wood. “Use it for its intended purpose, my dear. Treating it like it’s fragile does it no honor.”
Message received, loud and clear.
She spent the next hour interviewing him as vigorously as she would anyone else, asking questions about his recent past, figuring she’d work back to his memories of Sigurd eventually. Valerian had other ideas. No matter what question she asked, or how specifically the question was phrased, he found a way to turn the topic to Wyland: His legal and medical work, past and present. His role as a political adviser. His cultural contributions. “He doesn’t relax enough,” he said with a sigh. “Work, work, work. Speaking of which, do you know if Elliott got ahold of him tonight? He called here right after you left.”
Imagine being familiar enough with the Council president to call him by his first name. “I don’t know. He took a lot of phone calls while we were there.”
“Wyland’s been researching how we might transition Council leadership from species-based representation to something a little more democratic.”
She stared. Another scoop for the ages, another story she couldn’t publish. “You probably shouldn’t be telling me this.”
He gestured to the recorder. “This interview is for the Archives, right? There’s no need for secrecy.”
He’d handed her the perfect opening, gift-wrapped and tied with a pretty bow. “If there’s no place for secrets, why is there nothing in the Archives about your predecessor, Sigurd?”
When he finally answered, his voice was rough as sandpaper. “Because it hurts.”
He suddenly looked every second of his nine hundred plus years. She couldn’t press him, not now. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” he said, sighing. “I didn’t mean to get so melancholy, but I’d like to save Sigurd for another time, if you don’t mind.” His sigh carried the weight of the centuries. He took a sip of wine, then suddenly smiled. “Let’s talk about your attraction to Wyland.”
“Um, I’m not…” The lie froze in her throat. “Okay, yeah,” she said, brazening it out. “He’s easy enough on the eyes.”
His eyebrow cocked up with amusement.
“Okay, he’s gorgeous,” she admitted, “but he’s so…solitary. So closed off, like he doesn’t need anyone.” Except for when they’d kissed. He’d needed her then.
No, not needed, wanted. Two entirely different things.
“There’s a distinct spark between you.”
Valerian’s wise, rheumy eyes invited confidences. “Yeah, but most of the time he treats me like I’m a child.”
“I can see where he might have some issues with your age,” Valerian mused. “And with your profession. And with your independence, and—”
“Gee, let me take some notes.”
“I was going to say, your feminine energy, your joie de vivre. We’ve lived in a staid bachelor household for many, many years. You must forgive us—you must forgive Wyland—if this shift takes us some time to get used to.”
“I don’t think I’ll be staying here long enough for anyone to notice.”
Valerian threw his head back and laughed.
“What?”
“Never mind.” The remains of his smile lingered. “What else would you like to talk about?”
Hell, why not ask? “Does Wyland have a lover?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“He seems so…alone.”
“We, with our vampire longevity, love and lose, love and lose,” he said softly. “It’s a bittersweet experience, and some grow…remote…as a defense mechanism. In addition, making decisions which impact an entire species can be a very heavy load. It takes an extraordinary mate to stand at a Council member’s side. Thankfully, many of my friends have found such partners.”
She nodded. Lukas had Scarlett. Lorin Schlessinger, the Valkyrie Second, had Gabe Lupinsky. Bailey’s relationship with Rafe definitely helped leaven her obsessive focus on work.
“Tell me about your tattoo,” he suddenly asked. “Is that your own handwriting?”
She nodded again, bringing her bare forearm closer to his face.
“‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Or the one,’” he read aloud. “Ah! Mr. Spock. The Wrath of Khan.”
“You’re familiar with Star Trek?”
“Oh, yes.” He shot her a glance. “Kirk or Picard?”
Which captain did she prefer? It was an age-old question between Star Trek fans. “What’s the scenario?” Kirk solved problems with action and swagger. Picard was deliberate and cerebral. They’d both rock in the sack.
Valerian laughed again. “Yes, you’re a wise one.” He ran his crooked finger over the cursive letters etched into her skin. “This is beautiful work. Such crisp lines—and a good reminder for someone in your occupation, I would imagine.”
He understood. “It reminds me that my personal needs and interests aren’t always paramount.”
“Let me show you mine.”
Valerian had a tattoo?
He unzipped his Green Bay Packers warm-up jacket, spread the sides, and lifted his T-shirt hem up to his neck. Though the image was faded, blurred with time, Tia recognized it immediately: a Celtic Tree of Life. The upper portion of the tree was lush and leafy, broad enough to cover his entire chest, and narrowed into a twisted, gnarled trunk on his stomach. Thorny-looking roots spread wide at the base, disappearing below his sweatpants’ elastic waistband. “Wow.”
“When I was younger, I fell in with a group of pagans for a time. They thought me wise, called me a merlin.” Smiling puckishly, he lowered his shirt, then patted the place next to him on the couch. “Come sit here. Let’s work on that headache.”
Rising, she obeyed. “Do you know a secret pagan massage technique?”
“No.” Pulling up his sleeve, he exposed the veins in his wrist.
She recoiled. Did he mean for her to drink from him?
“Yes,” he said, answering her unasked question.
“No. I couldn’t,” she blurted. “You’re still recovering.”
He smiled. “I’m as recovered as someone my age is going to get.”
She couldn’t drag her gaze away from his. “It’s—it’s too much. You’re the freaking Vampire First.” He was offering her the strongest vampire blood on the planet.
“Yes, I am.” Such power in his voice. “And I want you to have some protection.”
“From what?”
“From whatever might come your way,” he said, exasperated. “Come. Come and drink.”
His voice was like a whirlybird in her head, echoing and swirling. She felt her resistance draining away, like the water in the bath she’d taken earlier. “Are you sure?” So many questions embedded in those three simple words: Did he really want her to have access to his memories and emotions, and second-hand access to the memories and emotions of those whose blood he’d ingested? To Thane?
To Wyland?
That he’d offer her such a gift was utterly terrifying.
“Tia. Feed.” He didn’t sound ill or infirm now. It sounded like he’d given her an order.
After a hesitation, she sat beside him on the couch. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted. “As an adult, I mean.” Her mom and dad had vein-fed her when she was young, of course, but bagged blood had been available for her entire life—convenient, always there, like humans carrying their bottles of water. The only time most vampires of her generation drank from the vein was with bondmates or long-term sexual partners.
Feeding during sex was supposed to result in stratospheric orgasms.
She believed it. Hell, she’d felt an erotic zing just watching Wyland feed someone else. What would it be like to feel his body, his fangs, plunging into her? To bite him back, to drink from him, as their bodies rocked and strained together?
Wyland. “Wyland wouldn’t agree with this.”
“Wyland has no choice in the matter.”
“But he does—or should,” she argued. “He’s chosen to share his emotions with you, not with me.”
Approval gleamed in his eyes. “The second-hand effect will be negligible and short-term, but the fact that you’re concerned about such a point makes me proud.” He sighed. “Tia, I want you to have the strength of my blood. Drinking from me, from an older, stronger vampire, will provide you with some tools that might prove useful in the days to come.”
“Such as?”
“It’ll kick-start your ability to thrall, to glamour—and to detect and repel thralls in return.”
The ability to thrall or glamour someone, to influence someone else’s thoughts or actions with one’s mind, was a skill a vampire her age could only dream of. Even the beginnings of that ability usually didn’t manifest until a vampire reached the century mark. “You think I might need such a tool?”
“With all the strange goings-on, how could it hurt?” He glanced at her tattoo, then met her eyes again. “I trust you’ll use your skills wisely.”
He extended his wrist.
After a pause, she took it. And drank.