Chapter Seven
Wyland loosened his tie as he trudged from the attached garage to the kitchen, smelling the remnants of the Beef Bourguignon Thane must have served for Last Meal. If he looked in the refrigerator, he knew he’d find succulent leftovers, neatly packaged and ready to heat in the microwave, but he really didn’t have the energy to deal with food. The hospital resident he’d been working with for long, long hours had said it best: What a complete and utter shit-show of a day.
A solar flare, unnoticed and of little concern to most humans, had sent dozens of vampires to the ER with UV burns. Then, Mila Stanton had wobbled into the ER, so anemic that she’d needed an immediate transfusion.
He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. Mila’s strain of vampire hemolytic anemia was a stubborn one, and the girl herself even more so. The stubbornness was a valuable trait—rather, it would be, once she started fighting with him rather than against him.
He went to the living room, stopping at the window overlooking the sprawling front lawn. It was freshly mowed, the pattern ballpark-sharp, and the gas-powered riding mower droned on the north side of the house. Out front, another gardener tended the hostas and spiky green arborvitae. Over near the tree line, one of the security guards did morning rounds.
He closed his eyes, savoring the sun as it beat through the UV-filtering windows. What astounding technology Elliott had invented. Maybe, at some point, the newness of the experience would wear off—he might even come to find the sun’s heat annoying—but not yet. But on the negative side of the equation, their cars were fitted with the windows as well. He couldn’t use the sun as an excuse to stay at the hospital instead of come home to their inconvenient houseguest.
Though he hadn’t seen Tia for several days, her presence was unmistakable. He came across her possessions in unexpected places, heard her giggles floating through the walls. The scent of lilacs had taken up permanent residence upstairs. Her presence was a mischievous ghost, haunting him for the hell of it—and unfortunately, she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Chico had informed him that, so far, the lab had come up empty on the note Tia had found stapled to the snake. Printed in Times New Roman on a generic scrap of printer paper, the note was as untraceable as they came.
And speaking of Times New Roman…more work waited upstairs.
As he strode toward the stairway, he heard the distant twinkle of Tia’s laughter. Valerian’s lower-toned guffaw immediately followed. They were probably watching television again. He sighed, but couldn’t begrudge Val the company. Val hadn’t needed supplemental oxygen in days, and his appetite was improving. Thane reported that Val and Tia spent a lot of time camped out in Val’s sitting room, immersing themselves in Tia’s inexhaustible collection of movies and TV shows.
Another peal of laughter sailed down the stairs. What the hell were they watching?
Chirp chirp chirp.
And damn it, where was that where was that infernal noise coming from? Had a grasshopper somehow gotten into the house?
He skimmed the floor, the rugs, the pile of battered, brown leather lying on the credenza at the foot of the stairs.
Chirp chirp chirp.
Yes. The sound was coming from Tia’s purse.
With a glance up the stairs, he went to the credenza and nudged the already-gaping purse open. It was a tumble of feminine detritus, with lipsticks, makeup, pens, and scraps of paper all elbowing for space. A black Moleskine notebook. A disposable lighter. A pocket-sized version of the human Bill of Rights. A small, plastic jar of a noxious-looking green paste, something called “Manic Panic.” A tube of VampScreen lay next to her cell phone.
Ah, the phone. The face-up display was littered with text messages, including the one Chadden had just sent, asking if she wanted to meet him at Underbelly tonight.
Beneath the phone was a yellow plastic device. He carefully picked up the stun gun, felt its solid weight in his hand. The weapon was heavier than it looked, with a clever cartridge that propelled the hooks—
The cell phone suddenly rang, a raucous guitar and a man’s rock and roll wail. The ring tone sounded like someone was squeezing the poor git’s testicles in a vice.
“I’ll be right back,” he heard Tia say upstairs.
He dropped the stun gun back in her purse, closed the bag with a jerk, and moved away from the credenza. When Tia appeared at the top of the stairs, he was setting his briefcase on the bar, as if he’d just walked in.
“Oh, hey.” Her breasts bounced as she trotted down the stairs. “I thought I heard my phone.”
His heart nearly stopped at what she was—what she wasn’t—wearing. Tia might call the camisole and boxer shorts pajamas, but he called them trouble. “Is that what that infernal racket is?” He winced as the phone—the man—shrieked again.
“Mr. Rose gets your attention, doesn’t he?” she said with a grin. Pawing through the purse, she snatched up the phone and punched a button, cutting the man off in mid-wail. “Hello? Hello? Damn.” Pulling the phone away from her ear, she scowled at the screen, then cursed under her breath. “No message. Very cagey, Commander Lupinsky, returning my call after the sun’s up, when most vampires are asleep.” She tossed the phone back into the purse, her disgust clear.
Why was Gideon calling her at all?
She stalked behind the bar and opened the refrigerator. When she stood upright again, she held a can of Diet Mountain Dew—an unnatural beverage that, thanks to Thane, was now stocked in every refrigerator in the house. “Do you know how much acid is in that can? Its pH level is off the charts.”
“Yes, Dad. My dentist reminds me every time I sit in her chair.” With that, she opened the can with a pneumatic hiss, and slurped with great relish.
His thoughts were anything but fatherly. He tried to keep his eyes off her mouth, but didn’t know where he should focus instead. Her bare arms and shoulders? Her gloriously unbound breasts? Her curvy hips and long legs, with their obnoxious turquoise toenails? Why did everything seem so much more vivid when she walked into a room? He cleared his throat. “Speaking of daylight, I thought I’d find you and Valerian in bed already.”
One eyebrow rose. “Together?”
“Of course not,” he stammered. Heat rose from beneath his collar. “I meant asleep. In your own beds. Um, separately.”
The little brat was grinning behind the can.
She made him feel like a foot-shuffling, pock-faced youth. “The sun came up hours ago,” he said. “I thought you’d both be asleep.”
“Valerian wanted to finish watching El Vampiro, but he’s getting ready for bed now. I have a little bit of work to finish, and then I have a hot date with a bathtub.”
El Vampiro? He wasn’t even going to ask. He joined her behind the bar, pulling a bottle of Perrier and a bag of blood out of the refrigerator. It would hypocritical of him to advise her to get some sleep when he had no intention of sleeping himself. In this, they seemed to be kindred spirits.
Her gaze roved over his loosened tie and rolled-up shirtsleeves. “You look beat,” she murmured. “How was your day?”
Something inside him jolted at the homey, ordinary question no woman had ever asked. “It was…busy.”
“The solar flare?”
He nodded, wincing slightly as his neck muscles protested. “I spent more time in the ER than I’d planned.”
She pointed to one of the tall leather barstools. “Why don’t you take a load off?”
He was too tired to fight with her. So he sat, and watched, as she mixed and served him a bloody Perrier. “Thank you.” He lifted the glass and took a sip. Cool bubbles danced on his tongue, and iron-rich hemoglobin hummed into his system. Somehow, she’d gauged his blood needs precisely. “This is perfect, thank you—Tia?” The space where she’d just been standing was empty.
“Relax,” she murmured from behind him. Before he could prepare himself, her hands were on his shoulders, working his stiff muscles through the wilted fabric of his shirt. “Jeez, your neck is knottier than a tree trunk.”
How was he supposed to relax when her hands were finally on him, stroking with such care and confidence? When she pressed her thumb where the trapezius joined with his deltoid, a groan of pain-laced pleasure escaped.
“This can’t be helping.” She pulled the black elastic band at the nape of his neck, spilling his hair over his shoulders.
The relief was immediate, as was the stirring below his belt. Something clicked against the bar—she’d taken off her ring—and then she really went to work, threading her fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp with the fingers of both hands. When she pressed her thumbs into the tense bundle of muscles at the base of his neck, he couldn’t quite bite back a sigh. “You’ve had training,” he noted.
“I like taking classes, learning new things.”
That might explain her odd efficiency mixing his drink. “A very fine habit.”
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said dryly.
“You don’t care whether I approve or not.”
“See how well we’re getting to know each other? Lean forward, rest your forehead on your arms,” she murmured. Her soft breath fluttered against his hair, against his neck. “Just relax…”
Something in her voice made him obey. When was the last time he’d been touched like this? The last time he’d allowed it? Time drifted, her rhythmic touches and strokes lulling him into a pleasant haze…until she grazed his neck with her lips.
He shot upright in the chair as his fangs shoved down. “Enough.” Maybe if he said it out loud, his body would get the message, because his body wanted blood—her blood—in the most elemental way. His teeth and cock throbbed with each beat of his heart.
“Wyland,” she whispered. Just his name, slipping through her lips.
He twisted the chair around, thinking he’d stand, that he’d leave—which was a big mistake, because now that he faced her, he could see her beautiful breasts, see her hard, saucy nipples jutting from behind the fabric of her camisole. See the tips of her fangs pressed against her plump lower lip.
The air sizzled as they stared at each other. He slipped off the barstool, putting his feet on solid ground.
She looked down, to the stingy inches separating the tips of his dress shoes from her bare feet. Meeting his gaze again, she moved closer. Cocked her brow in challenge.
If he didn’t want this, now was the time to move.
So, he moved—yanking their bodies together with a firm tug.
She whoofed in surprise, but recovered quickly. She looped her arms around his waist and tugged their hips together more firmly, pressing her soft curves against the mindless rod of flesh shoving so rudely against his zipper.
The pressure—too much, not enough—was absolutely maddening.
She learned forward, pressing her breasts against his chest, nuzzling his bare throat. She inhaled slowly, luxuriously. “Mmm.”
She exhaled, sending a shiver through him. Her lips curved, then she kissed her way up his sternocleidomastoid muscle, her clever hands working at the knot of his already loose tie. “For future reference,” she said, tugging the annoying strip of fabric out from under his shirt collar and tossing it onto the bar, “this is an excellent look for you.”
“What is?”
“The loose tie? The rolled-up sleeves, the rumpled hair?” She nipped at his chin. “Sex on a stick. Absolutely panty-dropping.”
A thrill shot through him. A chuckle escaped.
“What’s so funny?”
“Have you shared those phrases with Valerian yet?” He slid his hand to the elastic waistband of her ridiculous boxer shorts, then cupped her right buttock with his palm. “You don’t appear to be wearing any. Panties, that is.”
Her answering smile was enigmatic, as if she enjoyed some private joke. Before he could ponder it too closely, she rose onto her tiptoes and laid a blistering line of kisses along his jawbone, finally nudging her lips up to his mouth.
He took control of the kiss, locking their lips into perfect alignment, then dove in to the dark oasis of her mouth like it was the only thing keeping him from dying of thirst. She gave as good as she got, their tongues thrusting and parrying, strong and slick as they tasted and tested each other. When her fang grazed his lip, the delicious sting zinged straight to his cock. Pulling away slightly, she licked at it, gathering a tiny drop of blood.
Tasting his most intimate, primal essence.
He watched as she sampled him, as she swirled the droplet in her mouth like a wine connoisseur judging this year’s vintage. The mere seconds it took for her to murmur her approval and fuse their mouths back together stretched time to the snapping point.
The taste of his own blood on her tongue almost clubbed him to his knees. As she clutched at his hair, his mind flooded with deliciously carnal images: Tia, unzipping his pants and fellating him where they stood. Her, bent over the arm of the settee, him driving into her from behind. The two of them in her bed, his hair tickling her stomach as he bathed her slick inner folds with his tongue...
Her hands dropped to his belt.
“Wait.” He took a shaky breath. Valerian was right upstairs. Gardeners, caretakers, household staff…the security office was right down the hall. “We can’t,” he muttered. “Not here.”
She pulled at the leather and unfastened his belt buckle, the soft, metallic clank mocking his feeble protests. She reached for the tab of his zipper, drawing it down so slowly that he felt the gnash of each tooth.
His mind filled with hot, vivid visions: Moist, open lips. A blunt, hot weight, filling his mouth to capacity. Ravenous suckling.
His eyes narrowed slightly. Even at his most celibacy-addled, he’d never fantasized about dropping to his knees and sucking a man’s—
Her thoughts, not his.
He shoved her out of his mind with a brutal mental blast, severing the connection she shouldn’t have been able to make.
“Aaah!” She slapped her hands to her temples. He reached for her, but she stumbled away from him.
He should have noticed. He should have noticed the fragile new connection between them—weak, unschooled, but there.
Damn it, Valerian, what have you done?
When he reached for her again, she shied away. “Don’t touch me.” Anger had doused her desire dead. “It was you, wasn’t it? That headache the other night.” She rubbed her temples. “Damn, that hurts.”
He wouldn’t apologize for his self-preservation instincts, but he hadn’t meant to hurt her. “I’m sorry you’re in pain.” Actually, with the strength of the shove he’d given her, she should have been lying on the floor, incapacitated. Instead, she looked ready to kick him with her tiny, turquoise-nailed foot.
“You thralled me that first night,” she accused. “You abused your power.”
“I use my power as I see fit.” Her words carried an uncomfortable sting of truth, but damn it, Val’s abuse of power was a far worse crime. Val had clearly shared his blood with Tia, transferring Wyland’s blood at the same time, opening a fragile mental link between them. Though a vampire of his strength could easily thrall or glamour whomever he pleased, he’d need to drink from Tia, or drink from someone who’d drank from Tia, to create a reciprocal channel.
He zipped his pants and buckled his belt. He felt…hideously exposed. They were hideously exposed. How in the world had a baby vamp so quickly gained such intimate access to the Vampire First and Second?
Was this a honey trap? Was Tia a spy in their midst?
No. Lukas’s deep background check had come back clean—and though she had the right physical attributes, she was temperamentally unsuited to be another Mata Hari. Every emotion she felt was displayed on her face, for anyone to read. Right now, despite her kiss-swollen lips and erect nipples, she looked like she wanted to wring his bloody neck.
Damn it. If Tia hadn’t been a security risk before, she certainly was now. Damn it, Val. What the hell were you thinking?
No answer, but reassurance throbbed from upstairs.
“Don’t blame Valerian,” Tia snapped. “It wasn’t his fault. He was trying to help ease my headache—a headache, it turns out, you caused.”
“So you held Valerian down, and took his vein without asking?”
“Of course not—”
“Then I damn well do blame him.” But there was plenty of blame to go around. Yes, he’d caused her headaches, but he’d also let her lick the blood from his mouth. He’d invited her to taste him, exalting in the desire that had dilated her pupils so much that her irises had been all but obscured. And that had been a mistake. “You’re one of my subjects,” he said in as remote a voice as he could manage. “I’m responsible for you. And now, I have to find time to train you.”
“Don’t strain yourself, Buckwheat.”
He grasped her by her upper arms and gave her a little shake. “Do you realize what he’s done? Do you realize that you can now be used as a tool against us?” When her eyes widened, he pressed the point home. “No one can learn of this. No one can know you’ve fed from Valerian.”
She wrenched her arms out of his hands. “That’s not the only reason you’re angry.”
He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. Retrieving his tie from the bar where Tia had thrown it, he looped it around his neck. He buttoned his shirt and tied a Windsor knot, his hands on autopilot. “I’ll talk to Thane. He and I will set up a schedule for your training.”
“A schedule? Training?”
He snugged the tie up tight against his neck. Where it belonged. “You need to learn how to strengthen your mental barriers.” And he needed to remember his own. Protecting his thoughts all the time, in his own damn house, was going to be utterly exhausting.
“Oh. That machine my parents have.”
He nodded curtly. Recent vampire generations used a bio-feedback training device to learn how to protect their thoughts—and they’d use one with Tia to start—but he and Thane would have to teach her techniques most vampires never had reason to learn. “Drinking from Valerian transferred strengths to you, but it also created vulnerabilities for him, and everyone who feeds him.”
“Meaning you,” she said. “That’s why you’re so pissed off.”
He didn’t acknowledge her comment. “You now have mental access to me, to Thane, and to Valerian. You need to learn how to shield your thoughts, and shield them well.” And someone needed to drink from Tia, to create a two-way bond, if only as a defensive measure.
The thought of Thane’s teeth piercing Tia’s skin, even platonically, made something inside him recoil.
Val, you wily old bastard.
“It’s not that I can read your thoughts or anything,” she muttered. “There’s this vague sort of…throb. An emotional short-hand.” She paused. “It was a lot stronger when we were kissing.”
Because he’d dropped his guard—a mistake he wouldn’t make again.
Her gaze lowered to the tie, then returned to his face again. “So we’re really not going to talk about this?”
“About what?” The less he said, the sooner he could retreat to the safety of his bedroom.
“The fact that you put your tongue in my mouth, and that you liked it.” She pointed to his necktie. “And the fact that you just put your goddamn armor back on.”
The spicy scent of her arousal was going to drive him to his knees. “Why don’t you go to bed?” He gave her a slight mental push.
She shoved back, hard, sending a spike of pain behind his eyes. “Stop it! Don’t think you can send me to bed like a sleepy child.” Her eyes dropped to the hard-on still bulging below his belt. “We both know you don’t think of me as a child.”
Her words hit the bulls-eye, and it took everything he had to hide the wince. The images she’d spilled into his head… “I’m going to bed.” He didn’t have the strength to argue with her anymore.
“Chickenshit.”
“I see we’ve descended to name-calling.”
With a growl of frustration, she brushed past him, snatched her purse, then stalked upstairs. He didn’t need a blood bond to know she was angry. Confused. Feeling a raging sexual frustration that rivaled his own. And that she was disappointed.
Disappointed in him.
“Join the club,” he muttered. Without thinking, he picked up Tia’s can of Diet Mountain Dew and drank. Citrusy and oddly refreshing, the beverage tasted better than it should, given the information on the nutrition label. Hell, the caffeine content alone should be enough to keep him awake for hours—which was good, because he had plenty of work to do.
As he reached for his briefcase, a glint of gold caught his eye. Tia’s ring. She’d left it on the bar. After a slight hesitation, he picked it up and put it in his front pants pocket. Carrying the can and his briefcase, he trudged upstairs. The hallway was dim, and Valerian’s room dark, as he walked into his own room and closed the door behind him. In the quiet, he heard water running next door.
The bathtub.
Tia, naked in the bathtub.
Humming.
“Damn it.” Setting the can and his briefcase on his desk, he went to the mini-fridge, grabbed a bag of blood, and popped it onto his teeth. He quickly drained the bag, grabbed another, then sat down. Since Tia had moved in, he’d been going through blood at a blistering pace, trying to keep bloodlust at bay. Thane had obviously noticed, but hadn’t said anything.
He reached for the Stoker folder. Spreading its accordion pleats, he withdrew the letter he’d recently received from the software baron who now owned the original Dracula manuscript. His latest purchase offer had been very politely declined.
Again.
He wanted that manuscript, wanted to examine, touch, and smell the pages written in Bram’s own hand. There had to be some clue he’d missed, some piece of information he could find, that would confirm, once and for all, whether his own carelessness and poor judgment had given Bram the idea for his book.
Exposing their people’s existence.
Wyland’s lips flattened. He’d back off, give it some time. Make another offer to the man’s heirs after his inevitable death.
Time had a way of passing.
He slowly paged through the folder, studying his copies of Bram’s research notes. Maybe he should go back to the Rosenbach and work with the original notes again… No. He couldn’t leave home right now, couldn’t even think about it until he was more confident about Valerian’s physical recovery—and not until Tia gained better control over her thoughts.
Her inflammatory, deliciously wicked thoughts.
He straightened in the chair and dropped the now-empty plastic bag into the wastebasket. Between Tia’s soda and the fresh blood thrumming through his veins, he’d be able to work for hours before he’d have to escape into sleep.
He closed the folder with a snap, pushed it aside, then reached for his reading glasses. After perching them on his nose, he picked up a thick sheaf of legal-sized paper from the top of the pile, and pushed thoughts of Tia, singing naked in the bathtub, firmly out of his mind.
When Tia and Nick walked into Sebastiani Security later that afternoon, the last person she expected to see was Commander Gideon Lupinsky. Gotcha. “Commander,” she greeted him. “What a surprise.”
“Ms. Quinn,” Lupinsky said. “Nick.” He shook their hands.
The Commander wasn’t as tall as Lukas, Jack, or even Wyland—werewolves tended toward average heights—but with his muscular build and dark, sharp-featured intelligence, you’d notice him. Though he never wore a uniform, tonight Lupinsky was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen, wearing faded jeans, a plain blue T-shirt, and a Twins baseball cap. He sported a definite five o’clock shadow, perfectly appropriate considering the time of day. “Going to the baseball game from here?” she asked.
He nodded. “Lukas told me about your break-in. I hope you don’t mind if I join you at your meeting today.”
“Not at all. I’d like to speak with you as well.” Lukas had asked her and Nick to come to Sebastiani Security to discuss her case. While it couldn’t hurt to get the Commander’s input, he sure as shit wasn’t leaving without answering a few questions of her own. “We’ve been playing phone tag.”
“Yes.” Lupinsky didn’t look at all sorry.
The stairwell door to the left suddenly opened, and Jack and Chico entered the lobby. There was a slightly discolored smudge on Jack’s cheekbone, and they both had shower-damp hair. “Kicking the crap out of each other again?” The sparring cage in Sebastiani Security’s basement was a favorite workout venue for its employees.
Jack threw Chico a dark glance. “Lucky shot.”
“Yeah, my heel missed your pretty blue eye out of sheer dumb luck.” Chico slapped his hand against the security pad mounted next to the heavy steel door separating the lobby from the work areas. After a soft beep and a click, he pulled it open, and gestured for them to enter.
“We’re in the corner conference room,” Jack said, pointing down the hall that ran the length of the building. He paused at the break room. “Can I get anyone something to drink?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” Since waking up a couple of hours ago, she’d pounded two diet Dews and a large cup of coffee. If she drank anything else, she’d float away.
They walked down the exposed brick hallway, past Lukas’s cluttered office and Jack’s neat one. Over in the main workspace, people talked and keyboards clacked. A raucous game of Nerf basketball was underway over in the far corner. They filed into the corner conference room, leaving the trash talk behind. Lukas was already there, sitting in one of the big leather chairs with his eyes closed.
Guilt swam. With everything else on his plate, the last thing Lukas should be worrying about was someone leaving snakes in her bedroom.
“Oh, hey,” Lukas said, abruptly rising to his feet.
They kissed each other’s cheeks. “Enjoying the silence?”
He smiled but didn’t answer. “Please, have a seat.” A dozen leather chairs surrounded the long, oval table. They gathered around one end, Lukas greeting everyone as Jack closed the door. Instead of taking a chair, Chico leaned against the wall.
“How’s Valerian?” Jack asked her as everyone else settled in.
“He seems to be doing well.” Valerian had still been asleep when she and Nick had left the house, with Nick behind the wheel of a muscular black SUV with UV-treated windows. Driving here in broad daylight, without needing to coat herself in nuclear-powered VampScreen, was an experience she wouldn’t soon forget.
Wyland’s parking spot had been empty.
Not that she cared.
Much.
Hell.
It pissed her off that she even noticed he was gone, that she wondered where he was. That she worried whether he’d gotten any sleep, even after he’d acted like a complete dick earlier that morning. She’d fallen asleep to Debussy’s Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun, with its haunting, evocative flute, leaching through their shared bedroom wall. With centuries of music at his disposal, why had Wyland chosen such an erotically charged piece?
“How’s it going living at Vamp Central?” Lukas asked.
“Fine.”
“Good, because I’d like you to stay there a while longer.”
“Why?”
Lukas narrowed his eyes. “You’re not worried that we found trace evidence connecting your case to ours?”
“What trace evidence?”
Lukas explained that the lab had found some particles on both notes that merited further investigation.
“When did you discover this?”
“Earlier this morning,” Lukas said. “Wyland didn’t tell you?”
“He did not.” Earlier this morning, Wyland’s mouth had been otherwise occupied—and then he’d tried to send her to bed like a recalcitrant child. Had he known about the trace evidence then, or had he been notified after she’d gone to bed? It didn’t matter. “Gentlemen, for future reference, any information pertaining to my case should be communicated directly to me.”
“Certainly.” Jack’s voice was Scotch-smooth. “We found—”
“Wait a sec.” Lupinsky’s dark eyes were hard as flint. “You were threatened?”
Lukas told him about the letter he and Scarlett had received. “Someone also threatened the Council using comments at Tia’s website, In Like Quinn, as the communication mechanism. Jacoby Woolf was specifically threatened.”
“Folks.” Lupinsky looked around the table, exasperated. “You really have to loop me in on this stuff.”
“That’s why we invited you here tonight.” Lukas pushed a file folder toward the Commander. “Bailey’s not having much luck tracking the comments.”
Lupinsky lifted a brow, and Tia understood why. If Bailey couldn’t figure out where the comments had come from, no one could.
Lupinsky quickly sifted through the papers. “These are in timeline order?”
“Yes.”
“So, you and Scarlett receive a letter threatening your unborn child. Then two comments are made, a day apart, at In Like Quinn. And then, there’s a break-in at Ms. Quinn’s house—” Lupinsky flipped a page “—two nights ago.”
It felt like she’d been sleeping next door to Wyland a lot longer than that.
“Ms. Quinn, you woke up just after midnight and discovered that someone had put dozens of snakes in your bedroom?”
She nodded.
“One hundred and sixty five snakes,” Chico chimed in. “I counted the suckers.”
Lupinsky skimmed another page, then eyed her. “And you think someone’s been following you? Since before you moved to Stillwater?”
She hesitated. “I have no proof, no evidence. I’ve never seen anyone.”
“Well, those snakes didn’t get into your bedroom all by themselves.”
He believes me.
“The good news is that the person left garter snakes, not a toxic variety like rattlers, and that you weren’t injured while you slept,” he mused. “Fear seems to be the motive here. Why would someone want to scare you?”
“I have no idea,” she responded, baffled.
“Are you currently in a romantic relationship? Did you recently end one? A pissed-off lover, perhaps?”
“No to all three.” She hadn’t had a lover in months, and it had been several years since her last serious relationship. Wyland’s searing kiss had definitely been…an anomaly.
“Work?”
She shrugged. “ILQ aggregates and publishes content from dozens of sources, and hundreds of writers, besides me. I just published the last story in a series about inadequate handicapped access in public buildings. I’ve just started researching a series on human trafficking—which is the reason I’ve been trying to contact you—but very few people know it’s a story I’m even working on.”
Lupinsky picked up a pen. “Who knows?”
“What?”
“Who knows about your human trafficking story?”
“You,” she answered. “Everyone sitting at this table. Bailey, Valerian, Thane. Wyland.” Lupinsky scribbled quickly. Though her inner contrarian enjoyed the prospect of so many Council members finding themselves under the Commander’s microscope, even temporarily, she just couldn’t see a connection. “Do you really think—”
“What I think isn’t as important as what I can prove.” Lupinsky looked at Nick. “Anything unusual happening at Vamp Central?”
Nick shook his head. “No. We’ve been on heightened alert since Tia’s arrival.”
“Seriously?” she said. Damn it, how many people were going to be inconvenienced by her problems? “When do you think I can return home?”
Lukas gave a noncommittal shrug. “There are many lines of investigation we need to pursue.”
“I agree,” Lupinsky said. “You’re safer with Valerian and Wyland for the time being. Who’s my coordination point here at SebSec?”
“Me,” Jack answered. Lukas opened his mouth, probably to disagree, but Jack headed him off at the pass. “Lukas, Scarlett could go into labor any minute now.”
Every lick of color drained from Lukas’s face. Sweat popped on his forehead.
She touched his tense forearm. Lukas was a total bad-ass, but he turned into marshmallow fluff when it came to his family. “She’ll be fine.”
Lukas swallowed, hard. “I know.”
Chico nudged a wastebasket closer to Lukas using his big, steel-toed boot.
Apparently the rumors about Lukas’s sympathetic morning sickness were true.
“Ms. Quinn,” Lupinsky said, “Wyland told me about a conversation the two of you had, about something called—” he flipped to another page in his small wire-bound notebook “—shibari, a form of erotic Japanese rope art.”
Annoyance shimmered. “Wyland’s been busy.” He’d apparently found time to talk about her case, and her work, with everyone except her.
Sitting at her side, Nick was hyper-alert, and rightly so. This conversation wasn’t about her human trafficking story—or if it was, the association was passing at best. The Commander wanted information. “You’re referring to the homicide in Eden Prairie? The residence where Stephen is suspected of killing his first victim?” She waited for him to nod before continuing. “A source informed me that the victim was found alone, tied in an intricate arrangement of ropes. I wondered whether anyone had investigated a shibari angle.” Time to ask a question of her own. “Is Stephen your only suspect?”
“The incubus Stephen is still at large,” Lupinsky said evenly, “and he remains a person of interest in this case.”
“‘At large?’ There’s the understatement of the century.” After killing Scarlett’s sister Annika, attacking Scarlett, and nearly killing Lukas, Stephen had been captured, then transferred to a secure psychiatric lockdown. He’d somehow escaped, and no one had seen or heard from him since. “Commander, your case is so cold it’s forming icicles.”
“Which is why I’m talking to you. It didn’t occur to any of our detectives that there might be something significant about the rope arrangement,” Lupinsky admitted. “Mr. Solberg, I understand you have some familiarity with this subject. Would you mind looking at a few crime scene photos?”
“Not at all.”
Picking up his phone from where it lay on the table—he also had one of the super-secure prototypes—Lupinsky retrieved the pictures, then passed the gadget to Nick.
Tia leaned over to look, then immediately wished she hadn’t. Whoever had described the victim as being found ‘trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey’ had a distinct gift for understatement. His nude body was curled up like a Butterball, with precisely placed red ropes lashing his arms and thighs tight against his chest. His penis had received…specific attention.
“Shibari, coupled with asphyxiation play,” Nick said, his jaw tight. “He was found like this? Alone, and suspended from the ceiling?”
“Yes,” Lupinsky said. “Do you recognize him?”
“No.” Lips flattened into a thin line, Nick pointed to the ligature around the victim’s neck. “Suspended in this position, his neck muscles would tire quickly. With no one to care for him, he’d black out, suffocate.”
“Mr. Solberg, just how familiar are you with this kind of ‘play’?”
Her stomach clenched in warning.
Jack held up a hand, indicating that Nick shouldn’t speak. “Gideon, this conversation is a request for subject matter expertise, not an interrogation.”
Lupinsky glared from beneath the brim of his baseball cap. “All I know is that I have a human body in the morgue, and a family who thinks he dropped off the face of the earth.” He threw his pen onto the table with a tired-sounding sigh. “Too many questions, and no answers.”
According to Tia’s source, their police force had taken the initial call, from a terrified Valkyrie couple who’d arrived to use the facilities, only to find the unfortunate human victim. After processing the scene, a bio-hazard clean-up team had disinfected the place from attic to basement, scrubbing away the last evidence of Robert Johnson’s existence. As far as his family was concerned, Robert Johnson had dropped off the face of the earth. Their media pleas had gone unanswered.
She felt a reluctant communion with Lupinsky. The line between human and Underworld law enforcement teams was like razor wire: very sharp, very thin, and very carefully trod. “Is it possible this was an accident?”
Lupinsky answer was a one-shouldered shrug. “We can place Stephen at the scene—his skin cells and semen were found on the rope used to bind Mr. Johnson—but we have no insight into his motivation. We have no idea why Stephen went to the Eden Prairie residence, whether he knew Mr. Johnson beforehand, whether he planned to meet Johnson there, or whether they met by chance.” He gestured toward the picture. “We have no idea whether this ‘play’ was consensual or not, or whether the victim’s death was intentional or accidental.” He sighed. “So many questions, and so few answers.”
Nick slid the phone back across the table, his expression grim. “All I know is, no dominant worth the name would leave their submissive alone during this kind of scene. It’s simply too dangerous.”
Speech didn’t seem to be necessary; the swollen tongue protruding from the dead man’s mouth spoke volumes. Finally, Lukas glanced at the ceiling. “Anything else tonight? I promised Scarlett I’d get the crib assembled.”
He looked like he’d rather tangle with a tiger. “Would you like some help? Maybe I can keep Scarlett company.” She didn’t want to go back to Vamp Central yet.
“She’s not home. She’s visiting Dad and Claudette.” He didn’t sound happy about Scarlett not being under his own watchful eye. “Apparently Claudette has some baby things.”
And Elliott Sebastiani and Scarlett’s mother, Siren First Claudette Fontaine, had beaucoup security of their own. “Please tell her hello for me, and that I’ll talk to her soon.”
Nick rose. “Are you ready to go home, or do you have things you’d like to do here in town? I’m at your disposal.”
She considered making a Target run, but then rejected the idea. Nick shouldn’t have to pay because she didn’t want to deal with Wyland. “Nope, let’s go.”
She’d use the hour-long commute to stew and plot. To figure out what she’d say to Wyland the next time she saw him. Something inside her revved into high gear. “Could we swing by Chipotle on the way home?”
Nick grinned. “Of course.”
After eating a monster burrito, she’d be plenty fuelled up for the argument to come.