Sweet Ruin by Kresley Cole (14)

FOURTEEN

A vampire has my bloody talisman.

Rune would rather have forfeited the Darklight bow. All day he’d stormed down New Orleans streets, seeking any Lorean to question about Josephine. Most took one look at his expression and fled. Even the nymphs had retreated into the trees or the river.

No one stole from him. No one was fast enough, crafty enough. It simply didn’t happen.

Yet the vampire had.

Twice.

After she’d disappeared—taking her necklace, his bait—he’d interrogated the nymphs for any detail he might have missed, then he’d used those clues to try to unearth her lair. He’d been tempted to fetch Darach for the wolf’s tracking abilities, but Rune didn’t want to explain his new target. Besides, time moved differently in Tenebrous; tracing there and back would take several Earth days.

Damn that leech!

He found himself touching her bite mark yet again. A day later, he remained astounded that she’d not only bitten him, but fed.

A vampire consumed my befouled blood.

He pierced the remnants of her bite with his claw tips, seeking to recreate a fraction of the pleasure—only to fail.

He’d reacted like a madman, couldn’t even remember what he’d said to her. He thought he’d spoken to her in Demonish. He knew he’d bellowed so loud his throat had stung.

Part of him was glad of his response. Hardly that of a deadened man whose fire had been extinguished! Rune had felt with Josephine. Some buried cinder must have lingered deep within him, because it was . . . sparking.

His reaction to her—and hers to him—made him ponder the most asinine and far-fetched possibility.

What if she was his mate?

What were the odds he would meet a female whose scent put him to his knees—and who also happened to be immune to his poison? She’d told him, You smelled right.

No, no, there’d be no mate for Rune. Thousands of years ago, he’d concluded his kind didn’t get a fated one, were cursed to be alone.

He’d never met a mated dark fey, had never heard of a second generation of his species. His own solitary years had cemented the idea in his mind.

Even if he got a mate, Josephine the vampire wouldn’t be his. He’d reacted so violently to her and her bite because she’d mesmerized him.

Her scent enticed him more than anyone else’s simply because she had the most alluring scent. Other men on the street had responded with just as much heat.

None of the other Møriør had a mate. To take on such a glaring vulnerability would have to affect Rune’s standing. He’d be damned to the hells before he relinquished his spot at their table.

Plenty of immortals would sell their soul to take his place. . . .

By late afternoon, Rune headed to the Lore shop the nymphs had mentioned. It was a ramshackle store with a symbol of the Lore in the window. The shingle read: Loa’s Emporium

Perhaps he could find manacles here. He could definitely pry for information.

Unshaven and wearing last night’s clothes, he strode inside. A bell jingled above the door. Mortal wares crowded the shelves. A Lorean market must be concealed in the back.

A woman sat behind the counter, engrossed in a book. Her nearly sheer white dress clung to her dark skin, revealing a voluptuous figure. Loa, the proprietress?

He raised his brows. Well, then, this customer will be sure to return.

His response was yet more evidence he had no mate. If he’d found his fated female, then he wouldn’t be planning to bed this buxom shopkeeper at his earliest convenience! He asked her, “Where can I find handcuffs, dove?”

She didn’t look up from her book. “Back room. Aisles are marked.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve met a Lorean named Josephine? Brunette about five and a half feet tall.” Unbelievable body, whiskey voice. “Fairly blunt.” Bit of a bitch. “Wears combat boots and has piercings.” Even secret ones.

The woman licked her thumb and turned a page.

“She lives in the city and prowls the Quarter. But she’s species closeted.” Josephine wasn’t the only one. When he recognized what Loa was, he hid a grin. He’d bet she wouldn’t want that known.

Without taking her eyes off the book—a tome on neuroscience—Loa said, “Too many beings to keep track of this time of the millennium. Accession calls them close. Ask the low creatures.” Her accent was lyrical and drawling. Josephine’s accent had been drawling as well, but in a different way.

“Among your wares, do you happen to have a lock of Valkyrie hair?” The nymphs had promised to be on the lookout for one, but he didn’t hold out much hope. Information from them in the heat of the moment was one thing . . .

“You’d have better luck orderin’ a Valkyrie head,” Loa said.

He hadn’t thought it would be easy. “Do you sell information?”

She finally glanced up. “By the looks of you, I’m thinkin’ you can’t afford the information I have in my catalog.”

No? His wealth was so vast it was incalculable. He smiled at her, picturing all the relics he’d amassed over the ages, the ones that filled his private collection. Ah, the secrets he kept.

He found himself wondering how Josephine would react to his treasures. No doubt pure astonishment. How could she not be impressed? “Perhaps you’re right,” he told Loa, turning toward the back. He located the concealed doorway and entered.

Scents overwhelmed him. Every manner of Lore creature must have shopped here recently. Signs papered the walls: “Accession Savings!” “Fire Sale!” “Mass Death = Estate Sales!”

Affecting every immortal in the Gaia realms, the Accession was a mystical event that occurred roughly every five centuries, bringing Loreans into contact with each other—for better or worse. Some immortals would bond; others would war. Usually most of the factions fought against each other.

Nïx was attempting to change the rules of the game, transforming what should be a drawn-out war of attrition into a great Lorewide battle between immortal alliances.

The Møriør—a brotherhood of killers with very few weaknesses—would prevail. They always did. To their enemies, they were the Bringers of Doom.

He headed farther inside. The aisles were marked CONTRACEPTION, GLAMOURS, CONJURINGS. . . . He raised a brow at APOCALYPSE PREPARATION. They were already planning on it? He turned down the BONDAGE aisle, then selected a pair of cuffs with a tag that read:

Those witches were a proud bunch, considering they’d never received permission from their overlady to start this colony on Gaia—and considering they’d never paid taxes to Akelarre, their source dimension.

Most Loreans would rather face a vengeful deity than a bureaucratic tax collector.

In the year of 937, you lot bollixed up. Allixta arrives forthwith.

He examined the cuffs, assessing the magick in them. Not bad. He could customize them with his own runes, magnifying and steering the power, just as he did with his arrows.

Yes, if the little leech returned tonight, he’d capture her. Once he had her in his keeping, then maybe he could tear his thoughts from her and focus on his mission.

At the counter, he stowed the cuffs in a back pocket, then proffered gold coins. He’d made exchanges for these newer coins in the Elserealms, but they were still old. No choice but to use them.

As he tendered payment, his ears twitched. Something large was moving beneath the old floorboards of this shop, something . . . slithering. He despised snakes. He inwardly shuddered at the memory of the serpent shifter he’d been forced to pleasure. “Loa, do you keep a snake down there?”

She narrowed her amber gaze. “For dark fey askin’ too many questions.”

“I pass for pure-blooded fey. How’d you know?”

“Your canines. Touch too long. Says demon blood to me.”

“Ah, but I could be half vampire.”

“Plum-colored eyes.”

He grinned down at her. “Keen observations. And here I thought you were studiously ignoring me.”

“No threats escape Loa’s notice.”

She must possess a wealth of knowledge about her customers. Secrets for the taking. “How did you know about the eyes? You couldn’t have met many of us.”

The few dark fey he’d encountered had each been born of a different combination of fey and demon. Rage demon/ice fey, forest fey/smoke demon, and so on . . .

Their characteristics and level of toxicity had varied. But all of them had possessed plum-colored eyes.

Loa’s mien turned calculating. “Perhaps I’ve been seein’ a dark fey female in this very city. Perhaps she’s pretty to look upon.”

He straightened, quickly asking, “How much to buy a lead on her?” For some reason, Josephine’s ethereal face flashed in his mind.

“Why should I transact with you?” Loa asked.

Rune rested his forearms on the counter, leaning in. Catching her gaze, he raked one of his fangs over his bottom lip. “Why shouldn’t you want to do more with me, dove?”

Her pupils dilated as she focused on his mouth, her breaths shallowing. She blinked several times, then glared. “You’re a baneblood—with a healing vampire bite on his neck—who’s buyin’ restraints with too-old gold. What could possibly be troublin’ there?” Despite this, she was definitely interested.

“It’s a funny story.” Which I will never tell you. “We should have dinner.”

An arched brow. “Should we, then?”

He lowered his voice to a murmur, “Yes, and while we’re there, I’ll convince you to transact with me. Over and over.”

Loa crossed her arms over her ample breasts. “I don’t think—”

“Ah-ah, dove. I know females, and I’m gazing at one who needs more than just coin. . . .” He trailed off, muscles tensing.

Over all the other smells of this shop, he caught a scent.

Valkyrie.