Chapter 5
Alexandra Keller hated flying. Even in this luxurious, leather-upholstered pit of decadence her lover called his private plane, she was all nerves. After they were airborne, she paced the length of the cabin until she knew she was getting on Michael's and Phillipe's nerves. Finally she sat down and fiddled with a small glass of white wine.
"I can't even eat peanuts anymore," she said to no one in particular. "I really liked those honey-roasted ones in the little packets. Being a blood-dependent immortal with an atrophied digestive system sucks."
"We need a lab on the plane, don't we?" Michael turned to Phillipe, his seneschal. "See to it."
The big, brutal-looking Kyn nodded. "As soon as we return, master."
"Hey. I don't have to be working all the time." Alex informed them airily. "There are plenty of other things that make me happy besides medicine."
Phillipe leaned forward, the yellow eyes in his scarred face intent on her face. "Are any of these things on the plane?"
"Well, him." She pointed at her lover. "And you, when you're not slaving for him. I like lots of things, you know. Like…" She looked around the cabin. "All right. God damn it. We need a lab on the plane." She got up and went back to pacing.
Cyprien came after her. "Alexandra, you cannot do this for six hours. Come and sit down."
"You're right." She grabbed his hand. "Excuse us, Phil." She dragged Michael back to the rear sleeping compartment and closed the door. "Just how unstable did John smell to you? Slightly depressed unstable, bipolar unstable, incoming-psychotic-episode unstable, pending-suicide-attempt unstable, what?"
"I cannot compare it to anything else." Michael shook his head. "I have never encountered such a scent change. I think I could also be wrong. Alexandra. It is why I did not wish to say anything to you. Your brother is not like other humans. He is… a complicated man."
"A complicated pain in my ass." She went over and flopped on the round bed, staring at the ceiling.
"It could be an effect of what happened to him in Ireland," he continued. "Elizabeth did feed on him. She may have had sex with him."
"Michael."
"I know you do not care to hear that, but John is no longer a priest—"
"I just have one more question for you."
"Chérie?"
She tilted her head and watched her reflection do the same. "Has that mirror always been up there?"
"Oui." He walked over to the bed.
She studied how she looked on the bed. The round mirror, fixed to the ceiling above her, reflected the entire mattress. "Funny that I never noticed it before now."
"Merci." He knelt in front of her, his long fingers gently sliding the skirt of her dress up her thighs.
Alex lifted her head to glare at him. "That's why you like me to be on top when we fly. So you can watch. You pervert."
He smiled a little. "That is one reason." He pulled her panties down to her knees and pressed her thighs wider.
"Wait a minute." She tried to sit up, and then her spine dissolved as he put his open mouth against her sex. "Wait. God. Michael."
Her lover did not wait, but used his tongue to part her labia and lick the sensitive, more delicate flesh within. When she bucked against the explicit kiss, he took hold of her hips and held her in place.
"I don't want… I'm not… damn it." Alex couldn't catch her breath, not while she was watching him in the mirror, his long, white-streaked dark hair painting her thighs, his mouth moving against her as he licked and sucked. "I am not coming." She was going to come any second.
Michael raised his head to look at her, the amber rings in his eyes wide, his pupils slits. His fangs elongated, and then he brought his mouth down sharply, sinking them into her mound, dragging his tongue over her clit as he bit down.
Alex screamed as she came, convulsing, and shook uncontrollably as she felt him feed from her sex, his tongue working over her, forcing her back up and over again, and then he stood, his cock in his hand, and crouched over her, feeding the long, blunt shaft into her body, pushing and grunting as he took her, his lips covering hers, her blood and fluids on his tongue as he fucked her mouth and her pussy.
Alex forgot about the mirror and the rest of the unimportant universe until some time later, when Michael rolled away to lie panting and sweaty beside her.
"I like that mirror," she said, groping with her hand until she found his. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, chérie."
They cuddled for a while. Alex usually liked that part—neither one of them had ever been cuddlers, except with each other—but even the afterglow of unexpected sex couldn't hold her in its dreamy grip for long.
Michael watched her as she pulled up her panties and straightened her dress. "I could tie you to the bed, you know."
"No, you can't. It's round and you don't have any rope." She left him there and went out to the cabin. Phillipe looked at her, his expression diplomatically bland. "Sorry about that. Cyprien has got to soundproof that compartment."
He shrugged. "I used the headphones."
When Michael came out, he made her sit down with him and his seneschal. "No more pacing. Phillipe has collected some research on the history of this mission John found. You may find it interesting."
"Historical research. Terrific." She yawned. "Buckle me in if I get too excited."
Phillipe opened his laptop and turned it so Michael and Alex could see the screen. "This is a map of the hills of Monterey that I look from Google Earth." He pointed to a secluded spot that appeared to be empty land hemmed in by acres of trees. "This is where your brother says the Brethren were."
"According to the records Phillipe found, Franciscan friars established a mission there in the late eighteenth century." Michael told her. "They dedicated it to Saint Francis, the founder of their order, and worked to feed the poor, take in orphans, convert the local Indians to the faith, and start the first school in the area."
"They sound like saints." Alex closed her eyes. "Wake me when we hit the Pacific."
"That is the official account of their activities," Michael said. "Unofficially, the brothers of St. Francis defied the local grandee and the army he had stationed at the Presidio by giving sanctuary to rebels and criminals, stealing shipments of gold bound for Mexico City, and redistributing it to other missions serving the humble poor."
"Really." She eyed him, intrigued in spite of herself. "Rebels in robes?"
"One of their brothers, a handsome young man of noble birth, worked as a friar by day and a leader of the rebellion by night." Michael told her. "He was reputed to be the best swordsman in California."
"Oh, I've seen that movie." Alex nodded. "But Antonio Banderas wasn't a priest. He was like a petty thief or something. He played Zorro version two. Anthony Hopkins was Zorro version one. What?"
Phillipe pressed his lips together. Michael gave her a familiar look.
"What do you want from me? I was working hundred-hour weeks. I was tired. It was easier to sit and eat a pint of Ben and Jerry's and watch a movie." She scowled at Michael. "Until they put pictures of Antonio Banderas, preferably half-naked, in the real history books, I'm sticking to DVDs."
"With respect to the film version you have seen, the friars of St. Francis continued their gentle reign of terror for several years, until they were betrayed by one of their own and arrested." Michael nodded to Phillipe, who pulled up an image on the screen. It was a very old painting depicting a group of monks being burned at the stake in the center of a crowded courtyard. "None of them would confess to their crimes. Even when the grandee offered to douse the flames and set them free as soon as they confessed."
"John would do something noble and stupid like that." Alex felt her heart twist as she studied the painting. "What happened to the mission after they got torched?"
"After the friars were executed, the grandee burned it to the ground." Michael tapped the keyboard and brought up an image of a crumbling adobe structure, its walls blackened and nearly obscured by weeds and brush. "This is what the mission looks like today."
"I found a story about military girls who went into the hills," Phillipe said. "They saw their spirits."
Alex's eyebrows rose. "Military girls?"
"Two air force linguists who were stationed at the Presidio in the eighties." Michael said. "The two went hiking while they were off duty and came across the ruins of the old mission. The girls told police that they saw a fire burning in the old courtyard where the friars had been put to death. One of them, a handsome young man, smiled at them."
"Typical ghost story." Alex said, dismissing it. "They probably saw a couple of campers and let their imaginations go wild."
Michael gave her a shrewd look. "Those two girls disappeared a week later from their barracks, apparently in the middle of the night. The only thing military investigators found were ropes hanging from their windows. The two girls were never seen again."
Alex shivered. "Now that? Is truly creepy."
"I think those girls saw something more than ghosts at the mission." Michael said. "It's possible that they saw Kyn being killed by the Brethren. It would explain their disappearance. The order does not leave witnesses."
"Kyn being killed by Brethren burning them at the stake?" Alex knew the religious fanatics could be unbelievably brutal, but they were still modern men. "Isn't that a bit medieval, even for these guys?"
"They use only fire both then and now." Phillipe said. "Everywhere they attack the Kyn, they burn them."
"Arson destroys a great deal of evidence, and there is no Kyn with a talent that combats fire," Michael added. "All of the Kyn who were recently driven out of France and Italy were burned out."
"But that doesn't make sense," Alex protested. "You just can't go around setting fire to people, not in this day and age. Even in Europe, every kid has a cell phone that takes digital pictures, right? Something like that would be all over YouTube."
"Kyn prefer to live on large estates in remote areas," Michael reminded her. "That gives the Brethren room and privacy to do as they wish when they attack."
Alex shook her head. "I'm still not buying it. Fire is too random, and smoke doesn't incapacitate the Kyn."
"Fear does." Phillipe put in. "We remember how it was after the trials, when they began burning our leaders. We all have a terrible fear of fire."
Alex knew the obscene ordeals the Templars had suffered in the fourteenth century, after the church ordered them rounded up, imprisoned, and tortured. Until learning of the Kyn, she had thought the warrior priests had been mere men. According to what Michael had told her, by the time the pope disbanded their order, all of the Templars had become vrykolakas, the "dark Kyn" of humanity. As the inquisitors learned during long months of torture, the virtually indestructible bodies of the Kyn made them very hard to maim and almost impossible to kill.
"There weren't any copper weapons in those days, were there?" Alex asked Michael.
He shook his head. "Copper was used for other things, at least until the Brethren discovered that the metal poisons us."
"What about 'off with his head'?"
"Beheadings were only for the royals." Phillipe told her. "Too good for common people."
She tapped a finger against her lips. "So the only way to kill the Kyn in those days was to burn them alive. Interesting." She saw how they were looking at her. "Just FYI, if I wanted to kill you. I'd go with decapitation every time. Fast, no smoke, easy cleanup, plus a nice trophy for the wall."
While the two men laughed, images of fire and blood began dancing in her head and forming a vague theory. Alex had only begun studying the effects of heat on the pathogen, so her knowledge was limited, but there were other tests she could perform. All she needed was…
"Phillipe, can I borrow your laptop for a while?" The seneschal handed it to her. "I need to make some notes for when we get back."
Alex opened a Word document and began outlining her theory and what she would need to prove it.
Some time later, Michael touched her shoulder. "Chérie, can you stop for now?"
She looked over at him absently. "What for?"
"The plane has landed."
Alex checked the screen. The few notes she had intended to make took up seventy-three pages of text. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry."
"Do not apologize." He tucked a stray chestnut curl behind her ear. "You are beautiful when you type."
As he never traveled with humans, Valentin had not taken into account how the confines of the plane would affect his senses. Although she sat at the back of the cabin, he could almost taste the girl's terror.
He had been happy to assist her in her moment of need, but he did not want to feel this supremely annoying curiosity. It had been a mistake to seek her out last night, and he had been resolved not to repeat it. As soon as they landed in Atlanta, he would never have to see her again. As for her reasons for leaving Chicago so quickly, they were none of his concern.
Another wave of her scent came to him. If she did not soon cease projecting so much fear, she would rouse other feelings in him.
Valentin saw that Liling had lifted her carry-on bag onto her lap and was searching through it. She then looked all around the floor, as if she had lost something. "Is anything wrong, Miss Harper?"
She glanced up. "Not really, I had a map tucked in the side of my bag, and it's gone now. I must have dropped it in your car. I'll just buy another one when we land." She put the bag down. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
He inclined his head and went back to pretending to read the prospectus he had not been reading. Her scent intensified as her anxiety increased, teasing his nose. Unable to concentrate, he finally rose and walked up to the galley section at the front of the cabin. Although he had no use for it, he had it kept stocked with food and drink for his human pilots.
He would put together a meal for her; that should calm her and give her something to do besides drive him into a blood frenzy, as she had nearly done last night.
Gregor would be outraged to see his Darkyn lord preparing a pot of tea for a mere human, Valentin thought as he heated the water and placed the tea bags in the small Royal Doulton china pot. Certainly if this surge of philanthropy continued, he would have to consider hiring an attendant to travel with him.
He inspected the contents of the small refrigerator and selected a few of the sandwiches and fruit he found there for the tray. Then, adding the pot and a cup and then carefully balancing the lot with his good hand, he walked slowly out to the cabin.
"Miss Harper," he said, "would you be kind enough to assist me?"
Liling was there in a moment, taking the tray for him and placing it on the console table beside his seat. She smiled at him before turning to go back to her seat.
She thought he had made the refreshments for himself. "This is for you, Miss Harper."
"Me?" Her voice squeaked on the word as her black eyes filled with dismay. "I'm not… You don't have to feed me, Mr. Jaus. I'm fine."
"Then this will only go to waste, as I despise tea," he informed her. "Fruit gives me indigestion, and I find little sandwiches especially annoying."
"I'd be happy to make something for you." She glanced past him to the galley. "Anything you like."
He would like to unravel that thick braid of hers, Valentin thought, and see if she could sit on her hair. Then he would wind it around his fist and use it to tug her head back, exposing the delicate golden length of her throat…
She was staring at him now.
"Nothing, thank you. I never eat or drink… on planes." He gestured to the seat across from his. "I would, however, enjoy your company."
The girl sat down gingerly, as if she expected the seat to explode, and carefully poured tea into the cup. She added no cream or sugar, but took a small sip of the steaming liquid and winced.
Her embarrassed gaze met his. "Very hot."
"I used boiling water." Next they would be discussing the uncertainties of the weather. "Tell me why you've chosen to work at a rehabilitation facility. It seems an unlikely choice of employment for such a talented gardener."
"Gardens are like little havens away from the troubles of the world," she said. "Nothing seems impossible when you're surrounded by flowers and green, growing things. Most medical buildings have professional landscaping, but I noticed that few do anything more than that. I guess that's what first attracted me to working at hospitals and nursing homes. I'm not a trained therapist, but I know my gardens and flowers help the patients, even if they only lift their spirits."
Valentin studied her face. "What you say is true. I find I am most at peace in my garden." It was not the happiness she had claimed last night that he should feel, but it suited him.
"Luisa told me that you raise camellias. The bouquets you've brought for her room are so unusual." She looked as if she wanted to say more, and then she glanced away.
Somehow he was making her feel more uncomfortable. "The camellias I raise are called Daijohkhan, or the castle camellia. They were originally bred at Castle Nayoga in Japan, but they are little known outside their native country."
"I couldn't find them in any of the flora books I've checked." Her smile came and went, quick and shy. "They're so white and perfect. How do you get such large blooms to grow?"
"I strip all but one bud from each branch," he said. "Camellias are like roses in that they are egotists: The less competition they have, the more they blossom. You have planted some camellias at the Lighthouse that I didn't recognize."
"They are Hakutsura," she said. "I found several pots of them at a specialty convention last spring. I worried that the winters here were too cold for them, but the grower told me they originated in Asia, and that they would thrive—and they have done very well."
"Ah, the White Crane." He nodded. "I remember when they were brought over from Japan."
She looked bewildered. "I'm sure that you weren't growing camellias in 1930. Mr. Jaus."
"Of course. I must have them confused with another specimen." He would have to watch his tongue; she knew more than he thought about his favorite flower. "I was curious as to why you planted violet beds at the front of the facility. I don't grow them myself, but I had thought that species was partial to shade."
"Those are dooryard violets," she told him. "They're native to Illinois, and they're very hardy and will grow in any light. I thought violets would be more welcoming to incoming patients and visitors."
He was amused. "You speak as if flowers have personalities."
"I think they do, in their own way," she said. "Violets smell sweet and look restful, while zinnias with their crayon colors seem more energetic and showy. And you can't show me a rose that is humble and retreating."
He found her fancies charming. "What of camellias? What is their personality?"
"Elegant and passionate. Resolute," she added. "There is nothing hesitant about a camellia. It brings a certain presence into every garden where I plant it."
"Tell me about your very first garden."
"It was in Chinatown, at the home of a friend. There's hardly any room in the city, so I used containers and placed them around this tiny patio and a horrid rosebush she was trying to keep alive." She shook her head. "I chose all the wrong plants, and half of them died in a few weeks. Still, it made Mrs. Chen very happy. She spent hours out there, sitting and watching the birds and butterflies that came."
"How did the horrid rosebush fare?"
"Beautifully, although you'd never know it to look at it," she said. "The first time I saw it, I thought it was dead; it was all ugly, gnarled brown canes. Mrs. Chen insisted that it would bloom, so I waited all spring. It grew a few leaves, which immediately became covered with brown spots. I trimmed one cane and it died. I think it did that deliberately."
Valentin was amused. "I have never heard of a suicidal rosebush."
"Mrs. Chen said it didn't like being touched," she told him. "It was summer by the time it finally budded, and it produced only two small blossoms."
"Did they become covered in spots as well?"
"No. They were apricot-colored blooms, with the merest hint of yellow at the base of the petals. The sort of heirloom rose you can't find anymore. They budded so slowly they took almost two weeks to open, and their scent was unlike any rose I'd ever grown." She thought for a moment. "I can't describe it adequately, but it was strong and soft and so delicious. Not like the scent of roses at all; more like silk and fruit and the way sunlight warms the air after a rain shower. It made you want to keep your nose buried in them for hours."
Her lips framed her words in such fetching ways as she spoke, he thought idly. And the rose scent she described sounded exactly like how her body smelled to him. "Did your friend plant the rose?"
"No, she claimed that she inherited it from the previous owner of her house. She liked to blame a lot of things on the previous owner." Her eyes gleamed with mischief. "She bought the house in the late thirties, so that would make it the oldest rosebush in the city."
Valentin wondered why Liling spoke of her friend as if she were a parent, but made no mention of her own family. "Were you born in San Francisco?"
"No." Her gaze remained direct. "I am from Taiwan."
In spite of her body language, Valentin knew at once that she was not being entirely truthful. His Kyn abilities made him aware of the subtle changes stress caused in the scent of a human, and he had learned to detect the shift that occurred whenever they were not being honest.
But why would she lie to him about where she had been born?
"I've since learned to cultivate many heirloom flowers over the years," Liling said. "But I still miss Mrs. Chen's garden, and that ugly, cranky, suicidal apricot rosebush of hers."
A sudden jolt of turbulence made Valentin frown, and Liling wrap both hands in a protective gesture around her teacup.